


Second Chances

by AmandaKitswell



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Pining, Wedding Fluff, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2018-11-01 18:26:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 39,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10927503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmandaKitswell/pseuds/AmandaKitswell
Summary: It has been just over a month since the Mother was slain, and Arais Amell is set to be married when she learns the potential fate of a companion lost to her during the Blight.





	1. Chapter 1

**_15 Solace, 9:32 Dragon_ **

Arais sat at the vanity, face flushed with anxiety. Her private quarters were silent but for the rush of blood through her ears. Her heartbeat was erratic; she could feel it in the steady rhythm of flips in her stomach. She stared at herself in the mirror, at the smooth line of her lips, painted to match their natural, dark hue. The dark eyeliner Leliana had meticulously applied earlier framed her eyes, a glowing reflection of the nerves stuttering her heart. She wished her friend was still here; Maker knew she would be handling this all much better if not left to her own thoughts.

Her gaze shifted past her own reflection, to the dress that hung from her wardrobe. Long, billowing sleeves and a skirt that reached the floor. Tan silk brocade with elegant crimson embroidery to match the slip beneath. It looked every bit the way a dress worn by the arl of Redcliffe’s bride should look.

She just couldn’t believe _she_ was that bride.

There was a churning in her stomach, and she wondered why she was so nervous. She had spent any free time she had at Vigil’s Keep answering missives about the wedding, and planning the event in tandem with Leliana. Perhaps it had been the distraction of the intelligent darkspawn, a result of the war between the Architect and the Mother that kept her nerves at bay. Her time in Amaranthine, short-lived though it might have been, was full of horrible things she could have never dreamt possible, even after the Blight. But still, she found it more unbelievable this was happening; even after all they had been through, after all _she_ had been through, she was going to marry the man she loved.

Her thoughts were interrupted when a knock sounded at her door. She called for whomever it was to enter, and Leliana came floating in, an elated grin stretched across her full lips. A pale blue gown the exact color of her eyes flowed like water over her body, encrusted with pearls to match those wrapped snug around her throat and dripping from her ears. Arais felt some of the anxiety leave her body just at the sight of her, and she rose from her chair, arms folded tight across her body to keep the dressing gown in place.

“Why are you back?” she asked, though there was no real edge to her voice.

“To help you finish getting ready,” Leliana said, an excited, almost musical lilt to her voice. She came forward and took Arais’ hands in hers. “You didn’t think I would leave you to do your hair yourself, now, did you?”

Arais laughed, the sound breathy and light as the tension became a mere nuisance on the edge of her consciousness. “No, I suppose not.”

“Good.” Leliana squeezed her hands once and let go; she walked over to the gown she had hung with reverence on the wardrobe. “Now, let’s get you into your dress. We need to get you downstairs!” Arais hesitated for scarcely a beat, but it was enough to draw Leliana’s suspicion; the bard’s eyes narrowed, a coy smile playing on her perfectly painted lips. “Nervous?”

“Only a little,” she replied as she approached, and it was mostly true, now. She slipped off her dressing gown, and it was clear Leliana was unconvinced as she gestured for Arais to bend and lift her arms. “Really, Leli, I’m all right.”

Leliana slid the crimson slip over Arais’ head, careful to keep the fabric from smudging her makeup. “You’re allowed to be nervous, you know,” she said as she fastened the buttons of the collar at Arais’ throat, her pale hands stark in contrast to the deep red fabric. She pulled the surcoat from the hanger and carefully bundled the fabric until she could easily help Arais into it. “I attended many weddings in Orlais, and I met not one bride - or groom, for that matter - who was not.”

Arais lifted the skirt of her gown and stepped into the shoes Leliana placed in front of her. “I’m certain not one of them was a mage about to marry a nobleman.”

“Oh, no. That would have been far too scandalous.” Arais flinched, and Leliana fixed her with a sly smile. “However, they were not decorated heroes, either. Need I remind you Anora named _you_ arlessa of Amaranthine when she declared it a haven for the Wardens? And that the First Warden raised _you_ to Commander of the Grey in Ferelden? Your titles far outweigh your ability to wield magic, as far as I’m concerned. And I’m certain the same goes for much of the nobility in Ferelden, as well.” She took Arais’ hand and pulled her to the vanity. “Now, come. Let us do something with your hair. And I won’t hear another word about your magic as it relates to the wedding; it is clearly not a concern to Teagan.”

She sat Arais down in front of the mirror, and, starting at her temple, used the now familiar Orlesian technique to braid a small section of hair. Even now, Arais was amazed at how deft Leliana was at it. In what felt like no time at all, two braids wrapped around her head to meet in one long braid atop the hair Leliana left free; loose tendrils tickled her forehead. It was quite elegant for something which looked so simple.

Another knock at the door, and Arais felt some of the anxiety come flooding back. Maker, but she was jittery. Leliana had already crossed to the door by the time she had settled her nerves once again, and when she looked up, Zevran stood in the doorway, hands folded behind his back.

“Oh, good! You’ve made it,” Leliana said, and led him into the room. “Do you have it?”

“Hello to you, too, Leliana,” he said with a smirk.

“Yes, yes, hello.” Her speech was rushed. She hadn’t shown any signs she had been waiting on him while helping Arais get ready; this was odd, to say the least. “Do you?”

He revealed a simple, modestly sized wooden box he had been holding behind his back. “I do, in fact, have what you requested.”

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Arais interjected, her eyes narrowed, “but what in Andraste’s name are you two going on about?”

“A surprise, of sorts,” Leliana said. She gave Zevran a gentle push forward, and her lips turned up in a mischievous grin. “Go on.”

He cast a wry look back at Leliana, but fixed Arais with an adoring smile when he focused on her. “Leliana believed it would be a novel idea to make one of these for your wedding, and I was inclined to agree.”

He undid the latches on the box and flipped it open, and a waft of a familiar scent escaped from within, a whisper of cold brushing across her cheeks. She recognized the white flowers woven between the garnet and topaz in the circlet, and she glanced up at Leliana, astonished. “Is this the Andraste’s Grace I collected for you?”

“Some of it, yes. Wynne helped me preserve the flowers so they would not wilt.” Leliana smiled, and approached to stand beside Zevran. “The rest I collected on my own, as I found it. It’s quite abundant here in Redcliffe, actually.”

“And I supplied the gemstones,” Zevran added. He chuckled when Arais eyed him warily. “I assure you, it was through honest means. You would be surprised what the people of Denerim were willing to part with for the famed Hero of Ferelden in exchange for help rebuilding their homes. My help,” he said quickly, “though I suspect they would rather I spend less time in the alienage.”

“If they spent more time there themselves, we wouldn’t have to focus so much on it ourselves,” Leliana said, her voice cold. “As it is, they have plenty of people aiding in the construction of their homes because of you. I’m still amazed you convinced the dwarves to help.”

“It was quite simple, with King Bhelen’s more relaxed attitude toward trading with the surface.” He turned his attention back to Arais. “It seems you made the correct choice in Orzammar’s new king, at least as far as it concerns the recovery from the Blight.”

“I suppose so,” she said. She had been forced to go on instinct, and something about Harrowmont had never sat right with her. Not that she trusted Bhelen either. She sighed, and shrugged off her doubt, and reached out to toy with the soft petals of the Andraste’s Grace. “This is truly lovely. Who made it?”

Zevran moved around her to place the box on the vanity, and removed the circlet carefully. “Sandal proved to be just as talented at setting gems as he is with enchantments,” he said, and gently lowered it onto the crown of her head. “However, he needed a base to work with. That, and the flowers Leliana so graciously provided,” he started, crouching to eye level so he could adjust the circlet, adding pins as he did, “was me.”

There was a brief silence, and she stared at him, her mouth open just slightly in awe. “ _You_ made this?” She touched a finger to one of the gems at the side of her head. “I had no idea you could do this.”

“I have many talents you have yet to uncover, _carina_.” He added one final pin. “There, that will hold until you choose to take it off.” He then folded her hands in his, and helped her to her feet. He looked over her shoulder at Leliana. “Are we ready?”

“Not quite,” Leliana replied, and rounded the chair. She took a small leather box from the vanity.

Arais recognized it immediately. “Is that really necessary, Leli?”

“Of course it is!” She opened the box, and the light glimmered off the gems in the gold setting. Calenhad’s Cross. She sighed as Leliana nudged Zevran out of the way, and she stopped just short of wrapping the ornate gold chain around Arais’ neck. “What’s the matter?”

She looked down at the cross; Teagan had once explained to her what made its design so special. The garnet of Gwaren set on the southern and northern points, with ruby from the Frostbacks to the east and west. Highever pearl filled the voids between each point, and in the center of it all was sapphire from Alamar. “It just feels . . . I don’t know. Excessive, maybe?”

“Hardly,” Zevran said, accompanied by Leliana’s tinkling laugh. “You’re the bride; you can be as excessive as you please, and no one can say a thing to stop you.”

“Besides,” Leliana started, and wrapped the chain around Arais’ throat, fastening the clasp, “you were the one who was worried about being worthy of this day. Why not show off a bit? For your own sake, of course.”

Arais looked between her friends, now standing side by side as they watched her, waiting for her to respond. Leliana especially seemed to be vibrating, as if she knew something Arais did not; perhaps something she had long held on to.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” she asked, pointedly directing the question at both of them.  

They glanced at each other, a conspiratorial gaze that grated at Arais. When they returned their attention to her, Zevran was the first to speak. “We just find it rather amusing that you’re still so unsure of this wedding, considering . . .”

Here, he paused, and Arais bristled. “What? Considering what?”

“Well,” Leliana started, an insufferably smug grin pulling at her perfectly painted pink lips, “considering your husband-to-be has loved you quite a lot longer than he ever let on.”

“To you, anyway,” Zevran added, his expression an exact match to Leliana’s. No, not quite; his eyes seemed to dim before he continued. “It was rather obvious to anyone with an eye for that sort of thing.”

Leliana glanced over at him, and there was something like sympathy in the way her mouth curved into a frown. What further surprised her was Zevran’s reaction; he seemed to physically recoil under Leliana’s scrutiny, his shoulders hunching ever so slightly before he recovered, and Arais very nearly missed it.

Arais moved to stand in front of Zevran, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Is everything all right?” she asked, casting a glance at Leliana.

“Of course, _carina_.” His expression was soft, gentle; there was no playfulness, no irony, nothing she had become accustomed to seeing when she looked at Zevran. He raised a hand to her cheek, and brushed his thumb along her cheekbone. “Teagan loves you very much, and I believe he has since you fought your way through a hoard of abominations to save both Connor and Isolde.” His hand fell back to his side, and he cast a furtive glance at Leliana. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Leliana stared at him for a long moment before she nodded. “Yes. Wholeheartedly.”

“If you both knew, why didn’t you tell me?” Arais attempted to fold her arms across her chest, but her flowing sleeves restricted her movements. With an impatient huff, she settled for resting her hands on her hips. “There were plenty of opportunities.”

“True though that may be, it wasn’t our place,” Leliana said, her expression now gentle, devoid of her previous . . . Arais wasn’t sure how to describe it, but it was anything but lighthearted. “You needed to come into your feelings on your own.”

“And, to be fair, you would not have appreciated our intervention.” Zevran smirked, and a glint of mischief that was much more like him sparkled in his tawny eyes. “Could you imagine either of us playing the matchmaker and having it end _well_?”

“Hey!” Leliana cried, indignant, and smacked him playfully on the arm. “I resent that! I’ll have you know I was -” She cut herself off, her smile now sheepish. “But that is not the point.”

A laugh bubbled in Arais’ chest. “I understand, and you’re right. Regardless of your matchmaking skills, I needed time.”

“Lady Amell?” a voice called from the doorway, and when Arais turned, there stood Kaitlyn, an uneasy look gracing her soft features. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, not at all,” Arais answered, and offered the younger woman a smile. “Is it time?”

“Very nearly, ma’am,” she replied. “The queen is in the main hall, and she requested an audience with you before the ceremony. She said it wasn’t anything to worry over, but she wanted to tell you as soon as possible.”

“Very well. Thank you, Kaitlyn.” She watched the young girl leave, and was surprised to find she was not at all concerned. Her smile, for the first time that day, felt completely genuine, and none of the previous anxiety remained. She turned her attention back to her friends. “I suppose this is it, isn’t it?”

They both smiled, and Leliana moved forward to wrap Arais in a tight hug. “I am incredibly happy for you, Arais. I’ve said it before, I know, but I am so glad you found someone who can make you as happy as you deserve.” She stepped back, hand wrapped around Arais’ and said, “I need to check one last thing with the musicians before the ceremony begins.” She gave a gentle squeeze before she left, the skirt of her dress billowing behind her.

Zevran, who had watched Leliana’s exit with an amused smile, spun on his heel to face Arais, the smile now a playful smirk. He bowed low, and offered his hand to Arais, “My lady, might I escort you downstairs?”

“You may,” she replied around a laugh, and slid her hand into his. His gait was light and fluid as they walked down the hall, but she found his silence unusual. When she spared a glance in his direction, she noticed tension in his shoulders, and in the set of his brow. “What’s on your mind?”

His lips turned up in a light smile, though his brow remained furrowed. “Nothing we need to discuss right now, Arais.”

She remembered Leliana’s demeanor, and wondered if this might not be what had caused the awkward interaction between the two of them. “If it’s bothering you this much, we can discuss it now.” She offered him a reassuring smile. “How bad could it possibly be?”

At that, he stopped walking, and faced her with a grim look. “I have news concerning Alistair.”

“Oh.” Her heart skipped a beat, and she mulled it over, decided perhaps he had been right to not bring it up. But, now that it was out in the open, she might as well get it out of the way. “What did you hear?”

“The pirate woman we met at the Pearl, Isabela. Do you remember her?”

Her cheeks flushed; that had been an interesting encounter, to say the least. She nodded, slowly. “I do.”

“Before Sten and I left port after the coronation, I had Leliana her trained birds off with a message. A general call for aid to my contacts across Ferelden. I retraced his steps after my contact in Jader responded, but the trail had gone cold in Val Royeaux before I chose to return.” He paused, and, with some hesitation, pulled out a folded bit of parchment he had tucked up his sleeve. “I only just received this yesterday. It is from Isabela, and it . . . well, you should read it yourself.”

Arais took the letter and unfolded it with a surprisingly steady hand, though inside she could feel concern churning violently in her gut.

_Z,_

_While I didn’t have the pleasure of escorting your friend from Denerim myself, I believe I ran across him in a dingy old tavern in Kirkwall; you know the kind I like. From the looks of it, he’s been here for a while. I wouldn’t have been able to tell him apart from any of the other nameless drunks here, he looks so different from when we first met. However, he claims to be a Grey Warden._

_I’m sorry my news isn’t better._

_\- I_

She spent what felt like ages staring at Isabela’s messy, yet even handwriting. Her stomach was in knots. She knew it had been a mistake to read the letter now, but she needed to know what had become of Alistair. But if this was truly him, if Isabela was not mistaken.

Well, Arais might have been better off not knowing at all.

She passed the parchment back to Zevran; she didn’t even bother to fold it again. “What are we going to do?” she asked, her fingers pressing into her thighs.

Zevran fixed her with narrowed eyes. “ _You_ are going to do nothing except enjoy your wedding,” he said. “I, however, will be leaving for Kirkwall tomorrow to find out if it is, in fact, Alistair she has found.”

“But -”

“Arais, I know you want to find out if Alistair is all right.” His voice was gentle, conveyed their shared trepidation. “But now is not the time to do it.”

She sighed, and folded her arms across her chest. “I know you’re right. At least I know he might be alive, even if he isn’t himself.” She smiled over at Zevran. “Teagan will be happy, as well.” She pulled him into a hug. “Thank you, Zevran. This is the best wedding gift you could have given me.”

“It was no trouble, _carina_.” He pocketed the letter once more, and hooked his arm around Arais. “Now, let us find Anora; we’ve already lost precious moments before the ceremony begins.”

A broad smile stretched across her lips, and for now, she could forget her concern, a feat she might not have been able to accomplish a year prior. But today was about her, was about the happiness she had found and nothing could diminish that. Not even her own nerves, as insistent as they were. She lifted the hem of her dress off the ground, enough so she wouldn’t trip on the flowing skirt, and allowed Zevran to lead her down into the main hall.

Small clusters of people milled around the room, each face familiar. Wynne and First Enchanter Irving stood near the doorway which lead to the entrance hall, chatting amiably despite the close ear their templar escort kept on their conversation. A number of the Redcliffe soldiers who trained under him, dressed in their formal armor, kept Barkspawn busy as he bounced excitedly from person to person. He paid particular attention to the guard captain, Zhaal, who was more stoic than she’d ever seen him. When she caught his gaze, however, he offered a small smile, a hint of his cheerful demeanor returning.

The hound noticed her enter, but did not approach, and she suspected it was to avoid any damage to her gown. Even after two years, it still amazed her how intelligent, how _perceptive_ , he was, and it couldn’t have been more strange to her. But perhaps that was a remnant of her childhood in the Free Marches; it didn’t seem to faze her Fereldan companions in the slightest.

Near the throne, Anora stood with her back to the doorway. She spoke comfortably with Isolde, who frequently lost track of the conversation to fuss over Connor. His eyes were narrowed and the corners of his lips turned down in a petulant frown, but he did nothing to dissuade his mother’s attention. In fact, as Arais came closer, she could almost feel the contentment radiating from Connor.

“Arais!” The obstinance of childhood melted from his face, and a broad grin stretched along his thin mouth. He moved to step forward, hesitated, and his smile faltered a bit as he eyed her. Arais gave him a small, barely noticeable nod, and he immediately walked up and wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug. “I missed you,” he murmured.

“I missed you, too. It’s good to see you again,” she said, smiling, and he moved back to stand by his mother. She turned her attention to Isolde, who watched their interaction carefully. Her eyes had widened, only slightly, but enough to convey she was surprised her son was so affectionate with Arais. “And you, as well, Isolde.”

“I am grateful to be here,” she replied, her accent thick with emotion. As it was now, usually, when she was with Connor. Though if Arais remembered correctly, Isolde had spent almost all of the spring and early summer in Orlais with her family; a temporary displacement, as Eamon had moved into the Redcliffe Estate in Denerim. “I am sorry we did not get to spend more time together.”

Arais dismissed her concerns with a wave of her hand. “All that matters to me is you’re here today. It means a lot.”

“Your Majesty,” Zevran said, perhaps a bit too loudly.

“Zevran,” Anora replied with a smile. “I trust everything is well?”

“More than well, yes.” He gestured to Arais. “But you are not here to talk to me. You wish to speak to the beautiful bride, yes?”

“Indeed I do.” Anora smiled, amused by his mannerisms. “Could we have a moment alone, perhaps?”

“Of course.” He bowed once again, this time to both women, and walked over to where Wynne stood with First Enchanter Irving. Wynne smacked Zevran on the arm good-naturedly; he must have flirted with Wynne in the way only Zevran could manage.

Anora gestured for Arais to follow, and led her out of the main hall, into what was now Teagan’s study. Very little remained to indicate it had ever been Eamon’s. The only exceptions were a small number of books on shelves now crowded by Arais’ extensive collection of tomes on magic, and a portrait of Isolde holding Connor as a baby.

All the furniture was different, brought to Redcliffe from Rainesfere. A rustic settee and armchairs with ash frames and brass accents surrounded a simple carpet of deep crimson before the fireplace. A modest ash desk, made elegant by the ornate brass handles on the drawers, replaced what had once been extravagant mahogany. Arais adored what Teagan had done with the room, and spent much of her time since she returned to Redcliffe draped across the settee, one of her tomes opened in front of her.

It was there she sat now - in a more demure fashion, of course - and gestured for Anora to join her. When Anora was settled, Arais asked, “What is it you wanted to talk about?”

“Remember what we discussed in Amaranthine, before you and your Wardens were able to clear out the last of the Mother’s . . . children?” The last word was said with a note of disgust. Even now, just the thought of the childers which had stalked the streets of Amaranthine City made Arais squirm.

“I do,” Arais replied, and shifted uncomfortably on the settee. “You asked me who I believe would be the best choice to run the arling once I’ve officially renounced the title.”

“Indeed, and Varel has done an adequate job holding everyone together until I announce their new leader. It has become decidedly more complicated, what with the coup against you Bann Esmerelle tried to stage.” The queen paused, and her lips thinned into a pensive line. “I know you thought it best to recruit Rendon Howe’s son when he returned to Amaranthine, and I like Nathaniel well enough, but are you sure it would be wise to return the arling to his family? From what I’ve heard, things are still . . . tenuous in the region, due to the actions of his father.”

“They are less strained with many of Rendon Howe’s allies dead, Bann Esmerelle among them,” Arais stated plainly. “I stand by my choice, Anora. He risked quite a bit coming back to Vigil’s Keep after I pardoned him, and would have risked more still if I had allowed him to come with me to Amaranthine City when the Mother set her forces there,” she said, and heard her voice shake. Oh, well, she needed to speak, and it didn’t seem to bother Anora.

“Whatever grudge Nathaniel might have held against the Wardens and myself before he joined, it is no longer an issue. He wants to redeem the Howe legacy, and make Amaranthine a place where his family is no longer hated for the foolish things his father did during the Blight.” Arais folded her hands in her lap, and resisted the urge to fidget with her dress as she held Anora’s gaze. “I believe he has earned the opportunity to try.”

Anora watched her for a long time, and as seconds stretched into minutes, Arais shifted uncomfortably. She thought, for a brief, ridiculous moment, Anora was angry with her for taking such a firm stance on this. However, she realized that couldn’t be the case as the corner of Anora’s mouth turned up in a smirk. “There is never a dull moment with you helping me make decisions, Arais.”

“Why you ask for my help at all is still a mystery to me. Though you didn’t need any when you appointed me as arlessa of Amaranthine, did you?”

“This is true, and I don’t doubt there a number of nobles who would agree with you,” Anora replied with a laugh, and it struck Arais how much it sounded like Loghain’s. She felt his absence then more than ever, and it made her wonder how much Anora wished he was among the guests. The Wardens had been firm in their decision to keep him in Orlais.

Anora fell silent again, only for a moment, and gave a firm, definitive nod. “Very well. I will inform Nathaniel of the decision tomorrow.”

“Excuse me, ladies,” Zevran said from the doorway, “but the ceremony is very nearly upon us, and we very well cannot proceed without the bride and the queen.”

Both Anora and Arais exchanged a look of amusement, and made their way back into the main hall. Arais could hear the soft notes of a lute trickle in from the open door, and Leliana’s voice seemed to fill the room and soothe Arais’ nerves. When the door closed, however, she began to feel anxious once again.

As Arais fidgeted with the medallion at her throat, Wynne and Irving both approached her. “Nervous, my dear?” Wynne asked, and gently nudged Arais’ hand away from the cross.

“Only a little,” Arais lied, and with a single cocked eyebrow Wynne conveyed her doubt. “All right, all right, I’m terrified. I really don’t like having all this attention. I thought a small wedding of just close friends and family would be enough to quell the anxiety, but clearly that is not the case.”

“You will be fine, Arais,” Irving said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Wynne and I will be at your side.”

“I know.” She smiled a little, her eyes wet. “I can’t express how much it means to me that you are both here. I never would have believed I could find happiness in the Circle, but you both were like parents to me in the time I spent there.”

“And you have become like a child to us both,” Wynne said.

The seneschal approached them, Kaitlyn and Valena trailing behind. Valena handed Arais a bouquet of Andraste’s Grace, red lilies blending with the crimson center of the white flowers.

Irwin offered a tight lipped grin; a poor attempt to hide the tension in the crease of his brow. “The ceremony will begin in a moment.” He promptly stepped aside to allow them room to move. “Please, get into position.”

Arais followed Irving and Wynne to the door, put off by the seneschal’s almost militant command, and stood between them. Each of them locked arms with her, and when the door began to open, she once again heard Leliana’s soothing music waft into the castle along with a heavy floral scent. Again, her nerves were eased and she felt significantly calmer, as if she could do anything without worry.

There was a unique sort of magic in the way Leliana played, she was certain of it.

Arais walked forward at a relaxed pace, and when she saw the scene before her, she grit her teeth to keep her mouth from falling agape. The railings of the stairs were covered in carefully placed Andraste’s Grace and red lilies, and deep green vines climbed along the pillars. As she descended the stairs with careful steps, she began to see the rose petals scattered along the steps and the aisle created by those who stood watching her.

When she reached the bottom of the steps, she forced herself to look forward. Teagan stood just beyond where Leliana sang along to the tune she played on her lute. Next to him stood Revered Mother Hannah, in a more formal version of the Chantry robes. Arais, however, could only spare a passing glance at her, for her attention was enraptured by Teagan, who smiled broadly.

He wore a version of the finery she had seen him in at the coronation, though the colors were the same as those of her gown. He wore a doublet of deep crimson which brought out the blue in his eyes. His trousers were a deep tan which matched the tunic, the ties which held it in place the same deep red as his doublet.

She looked around, briefly, and saw Anora, closest to the altar to her left, with Isolde directly beside her. Leliana played her lute just beyond Isolde, and gave Arais a smile in the short break she had from singing. To her right, Zevran stood next to Teagan, though not on the altar, like the women. Beside him, Oghren, and then… no one.

It seemed Eamon had decided not to come to their wedding, after all. Her smile faltered the slightest bit as she wondered how he could have the gall to hold such a grudge against his own brother. But perhaps his failed attempt to manipulate Connor, and the subsequent argument he and Teagan had, were enough for him. She wouldn’t put it past him.

As she approached the altar on which Teagan and Mother Hannah stood, both Wynne and Irving kissed her on the cheek. They took their places among the guests while she climbed the steps of the altar. Teagan took her hand in hers as they both turned to face Mother Hannah.

Mother Hannah raised her arms, and Arais heard the shuffle behind her as everyone turned to face forward. When all was quiet again, the revered mother began a verse from the Chant.

 _“The children of the Maker gathered_  
_Before his golden throne_ _  
_ And sang hymns of praise unending.

“We gather here in the eyes of the Maker to join this man and woman in holy matrimony. If there is anyone who can show just cause why they may not be lawfully wed, speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

She paused for a moment, her gaze drifting across the crowd. When no one spoke, she continued.

 _“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow_ _  
_ _In their blood the Maker’s will is written.”_

Mother Hannah cast a stern glance at both Teagan and Arais in turn. “I require and charge you both to reveal any impediment through which you may not be lawfully wed.”

Teagan smiled over at Arais. “I have none.”

“Nor do I,” Arais said in response, and tightened her hand around Teagan’s.

There was a moment of quiet before Mother Hannah cracked the smallest of smiles, and she pressed on.

 _“Here, I decree_  
_Opposition in all things:_  
_For earth, sky_  
_For winter, summer_  
_For darkness, light._  
_By My Will alone is Balance sundered_ _  
_ And the world given new life.

“As decreed by the Maker, the bond between a man and a woman is a joining of opposites, and from this joining will come new life.”

 _"Then the Voice of the Maker rang out_  
_The first Word_  
_And His Word became all that might be:_  
_Dream and idea, hope and fear_ _  
_ Endless possibilities.

“Teagan Rendorn Guerrin,” Mother Hannah began, “wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, so long as you both shall live?”

“I will,” Teagan replied, squeezing Arais’ hand.

The revered mother turned to Arais. “Arais Ceri Amell, wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband? Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and health, so long as you both shall live?”

She squeezed back. “I will.”

Mother Hannah lowered her hands, and gestured to someone behind Arais and Teagan. They turned and saw Connor step forward from his place beside an elven girl with skin dark as burnt umber. His friend Vitalia, she remembered with a smile. He had insisted upon her accompanying him to the wedding, no doubt so he wouldn’t be the only child among the guests.

He ascended the steps - the brightest of grins on his face - and he handed each a golden ring, the same color as the signet ring she still wore on her left hand.

Connor filled the void Eamon left beside Oghren. The revered mother again lifted her hands, and said, “Maker, bless these rings, that those who wear them, that give and receive them, may remain in Your peace, and live and grow old together in Your love, under their own vine and fig tree, and seeing their children's children prosper and thrive.

“Teagan,” she continued, “place your ring on Arais’ finger, and speak your vows to her now.”

Lifting her left hand, he slid the ring onto her third finger until it rested just above his signet ring.

"I pledge my love to you, and everything that I own  
I promise you the first bite of my meat and the first sip from my cup.  
I pledge yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night,  
And the eyes into which I smile each morning.  
I shall be a shield for your back as you are for mine.  
I pledge to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care.  
I promise to honor you above all others.  
Our love is never-ending and we will remain, forevermore, equals in our marriage.  
Thereto I plight thee my troth."

“Arais, place your ring on Teagan’s finger, and speak your vows to him now.”

She noticed her hand was shaking a little when she lifted Teagan’s, and if it had been any worse, she might have dropped the ring and made a fool of herself. She slipped the ring onto his finger, and smiled up at him as she spoke.

"I pledge my love to you, and everything that I own  
I promise you the first bite of my meat and the first sip from my cup.  
I pledge yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night,  
And the eyes into which I smile each morning.  
I shall be a shield for your back as you are for mine.  
I pledge to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care.  
I promise to honor you above all others.  
Our love is never-ending and we will remain, forevermore, equals in our marriage.  
Thereto I plight thee my troth."

They faced one another, hand in hand, when the revered mother spoke once more..

“Teagan and Arais,” she said, “here you stand before me, in the sight of the Maker. From this day forward, your lives are intertwined. No longer shall you shall walk your paths alone, but you shall walk side by side, hand in hand.

 _"My hearth is yours, my bread is yours, my life is yours._ _  
_ _For all who walk in the sight of the Maker are one._

“As you exchanged both rings and vows, you were two separate people. Turn now to face those who witness your joining, as you shall live the rest of your lives, no longer separate, but joined as one.” They did as they were bidden, and faced family and friends alike. "Forasmuch as Teagan and Arais have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before the Maker and this company, and have pledged their troth to one another, I pronounce they are man and wife, in the name of the Maker."

She turned to Teagan, and immediately felt his lips on hers. She stepped into the kiss, and her arms came up to snake around his neck; he pulled her in by the waist until she was flush against him. She heard the witnesses applauding, and there was at least one wolf whistle, no doubt Oghren among them. They descended the steps, and she could barely hear the seneschal trying to calm the crowd from the top of the stairway, the frustration evident in the timber of his voice.

They turned at the bottom of the steps to face the crowd of witnesses just as the seneschal managed to bring order. Irwin’s voice was strained as he announced, “The feast will begin in an hour’s time, and there will be a ball to celebrate the joining of our arl and new arlessa. All who attended the ceremony are welcome.”

When they ascended the steps, her gaze was captured by familiar, dark brown eyes. Zhaal stood, shoulders squared, as he held one of the heavy wooden doors open. His braids were pulled back to the nape of his neck, secured with a leather tie as black as his hair. The wrap of crimson Highever weave at his waist glimmered in the sunlight and shone almost golden, and stood out against the iridescence of silverite armor.

The moisture in his eyes made them shimmer like gems, and she smiled at him, felt her own eyes begin to overflow with tears as her emotions overwhelmed her. And as she crossed the threshold into the home she would share with Teagan, his arm now wrapped around her so his hand rested on her hip, there was only this moment. She felt light, unburdened for the first time since she had left the Circle for Ostagar.

 

* * *

 

The seneschal led them to the dining hall, and Arais felt the butterflies return to her belly. The hour she spent alone with Teagan simply talking in his study had been free of the nerves to be expected of this day, and she had believed it was done with for good, but of course it had been too much to hope. There was a cacophony of voices drifting through the hall; so many people had chosen to remain, it seemed, which only served to heighten her anxiety. She hesitated at the threshold.

“You seem nervous, my love,” Teagan said, briefly squeezing the hand he held.

She looked up at him. “I never did enjoy being the center of attention,” she confessed, and her lips curved into a sheepish smile. “Though I suppose there is no avoiding it today.”

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “Though with some of your friends in attendance, the attention will be drawn from you occasionally, I’m sure.”

She laughed, and felt herself relieved of some of the anxiety. “This is very true. Oghren never fails to do something of note during any formal gathering, and Zevran is always good for a distraction, when called upon.” She lifted a hand to his cheek. “You always know how to make me feel better. How do you do it so easily?”

“It’s a gift,” he said in a low voice, and leaned down to press a soft kiss to her lips. She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her cheek upon his chest. She could feel his warmth through his doublet, and she closed her eyes as the last of her nerves melted away.

A throat cleared nearby. “Your guests are waiting, My Lord,” the seneschal said, though without his usual impatience. When she looked over to him, he even seemed apologetic. “Should I tell them to expect a delay?”

“That won’t be necessary, Irwin,” she said. She stepped away from Teagan, and looked up at him with a smile. “Ready?”

“Always.”

He nodded to Irwin, and as the seneschal stepped into the dining hall to announce their arrival, Arais placed her hand on the elbow Teagan offered her. Her smile widened, her heart fluttering in her chest as she crossed into the room, which had fallen quiet since Irwin had entered. They took their seats at the head of the table, and Irwin set the servants to work.

They circled the tables, spooning heaping piles of food onto everyone’s plate, and soon the room was filled with the scrape of silverware. Conversations spread across the table. Of course Arais was resisting the urge discuss the news of Alistair with Zevran. Though he sat directly beside her, so did Teagan; simply leaning over to speak to Zevran would not put her out of her husband’s earshot.

Husband. It wasn’t that the word was strange, but perhaps that she was so quickly accustomed to referring to Teagan as such. It put a smile on her face, and she turned to Teagan, who saw her smile and returned it, and reached over to take her hand in his.

The sounds of silverware began to fade, and everyone was loudly conversing with one another as the servants cleared plates and began to bring out the desserts. There was a clinking noise beside Arais, and she turned to see Zevran standing, tapping his knife to his glass. He succeeded not only in getting her attention, but the attention of everyone at the table.

He quietly cleared his throat. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. In case you aren’t aware, I am Zevran Arainai, and I was one of the many incredible people to travel with our dear arlessa during the Blight. In that time, I saw her grow from a shy, passive girl into a compassionate, kind, and, above all, merciful woman. While at times it was more difficult than any ordinary person could handle, Arais is by no means ordinary.

“She has the capacity to love without limit, show kindness to those who do not deserve it, and merciful even when it puts her own life in jeopardy. It was this kind of merciful kindness that brought us to Redcliffe, and it is how she managed to spare the life of a mother and her only son. She brought the wrath of the Grand Cleric down upon herself to give that boy the opportunity to see his family in the Circle, and with that decision, became a part of the very family she did so much to preserve and protect.”

He turned to Teagan and Arais. “It is with all of this in mind I say to you,”-he focused on Teagan-”that you are a very lucky man. There isn’t another man alive I believe is more deserving of a lifetime with Arais.” His eyes focused on Arais, and she was sure she saw a sort of sadness within them when he continued. “Not a one.”

He bowed to them and sat down once again. Her eyes remained on Zevran, but before she could check on him, Anora stood. The entire table full of people focused their attention on their queen, and thus she was forced to as well. “Good evening, lords and ladies,” she said, addressing those assembled in the hall. Smirking, she added, "Assassins and dwarves,” with a glance to Zevran and Oghren. “Of the many weddings I have attended even since before I was crowned queen, this is the only one I can firmly say I support, with all that I am and all that I believe. I have known Arl Teagan since I was a small child, causing mischief with Cailan and the other nobles’ children in the Denerim estates.

“Teagan is an honest, if firm, man, and he has never been afraid to be open with that honesty. Were it not for him . . .” She fell silent for a moment. “Well, there is much I owe to him. But one thing I know is his lack of romantic entanglements were often spoken of, and of course rumors were spread. Not a one could have been true unless we heard it from his own lips, for I know he would have come forward with the truth if he deemed it important enough.

“I suspected, even as a young girl, that it would take a remarkable person to get his attention, and, indeed, I was right. Arais is everything Zevran said of her and more, and if there is a person more likely to have earned his love and respect, I have not met them, nor do I expect to.” She lifted her goblet. “Let us raise our glasses to the bond between these two remarkable people. There are not yet two people more deserving of one another in all of Ferelden.”

There were shouts of agreement, but she only noticed a frazzled Irwin gesturing to the servants. They rounded the table and set plates with a variety of desserts in the center. She recognized many of them from previous visits when she returned just a month prior, and the difference in their demeanors was nothing short of extreme. They were no longer timid and jumpy, and she suspected that had everything to do with how they were now treated. Teagan was a far more empathetic and kind leader than Eamon had ever been, and the servants in his castle were treated no differently than any other person.

Cakes and pies and tarts of all sorts were cut and placed carefully on plates. As everyone ate, she realized she had certainly not lost the ravenous appetite that came with being a Warden. She had already begun on a third helping of dessert before she caught herself and noticed Teagan smiling at her.

Her cheeks darkened, and she cast a small smile in his direction before she focused on her plate, more than a little embarrassed. She knew, of course, that it was nothing to be ashamed of, but she couldn’t help but think of the many nights around the fire during the Blight which had brought Alistair to point it out in the first place.

Maker curse her mind for wandering; this was the last thing she wanted to think about. It was almost easy to forget when she took Teagan’s hand, the torchlight catching on the golden ring resting above the signet ring he had given her not seven months earlier. She had half expected him to take it back, but when she returned from Amaranthine to begin preparations for the wedding, she noted he now had a replica of the very ring she wore in place on his little finger. She had insisted they trade rings, so he could have the one he wore for so long, but he refused; in fact, he insisted she keep it.

She moved her attention away from her ring, and both saw and heard Oghren and Nathaniel deep in conversation. Likely it pertained to what they would need to do when they returned to Amaranthine. She let out a gentle, relieved sigh, thankful she wouldn’t need to accompany them. She was glad to have that chapter of her life completed.

When everyone had their fill, the seneschal bid them to rise, and led them all to the ballroom, led by both Arais and Teagan. As soon as they entered the ballroom, music began to play, and once again Leliana’s voice filled the room. It seemed she had taken on all of the music for the ceremony and the reception. What impressed Arais, however, is that Leliana had disappeared from the dinner table without Arais noticing at all.

She sighed. _Rogues_.

Teagan led her into the center of the ballroom, and she very nearly hesitated. She still wasn’t confident in her dancing skills, and this time, she didn’t have the buffer of a large crowd of dancers to cover her mistakes.

Teagan leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Just relax, my love. Follow my lead and you will be all right. You are far better at dancing than you give yourself credit for.”

“Okay,” she said, and her cheeks burned. Perhaps he was right. She hadn’t managed to hurt him the last time they danced together, and that was saying something at the time, since she had stumbled on Zevran’s feet more than once in the same evening.

They spun around the dance floor, Leliana’s soft soprano lilting along effortlessly. As the song continued, couples began to trickle onto the dance floor, most notably Connor and Vitalia. She and Connor giggled as they danced, though their dance was not nearly as intricate as the waltz performed by the adults. Arais envied them.

“I do hate to interrupt, but may I cut in?” Arais turned and saw Zevran, that smirk back on his face.

“You may,” Arais said, “though I do wonder with whom you wish to dance.”

Zevran laughed, a loud guffaw followed by a longer, softer chuckle. “Maker’s breath, Arais, I do believe I like this side of you.” He turned to look at Teagan. “As much as I would love to dance with you, I would wish to dance with your wife, for now.”

“That is quite all right with me,” Teagan said, an amused smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps you can make it up to me later?” he teased.

“If that is your wish,” Zevran replied, his eyes wide - with amusement or surprise, she could hardly tell. Perhaps he hadn’t expected Teagan to play along; though Arais suspected he wasn’t being entirely facetious.

Teagan began to leave the dance floor, only to be accosted by Isolde not a moment later. He gladly took to dancing with her, and they smoothly adjusted to the flow of the dancers. While they seemed to be talking, Isolde’s eyes never seemed to stray too far from Connor.

Her smile was infectious.

She noticed Connor and Vitalia leave the dance floor, and wandered to a table manned by a handful of servants, where all manner of drinks were being served. There was a sort of Antivan wine with berries floating within it, chilled tea, and carafes of Fereldan and Orlesian wines. Oghren stood conspicuously by the chilled wine, and Arais felt something was off.

“I can’t be sure,” she whispered to Zevran, “but I think Oghren is going to try something with the drinks over there.”

Zevran spun them around to look over her shoulder, and sighed. “I do believe you’re right. We should go check on him, just to be certain.”

“I agree.” They weaved their way to the drink table, and made their best attempt to not draw attention to themselves. Of course, that was difficult, as all eyes were automatically drawn to Arais. When they made it to Oghren, he had lifted something towards the lip of the chilled tea, a mischievous grin hidden beneath his braided beard.

“Hello, Oghren,” Zevran said, a deceptive placidity in his voice. “What do you have there?”

Oghren hid what he was holding behind his back. “Nothing. I wasn’t holding anything.”

“Are you sure about that?” Arais asked, and before the dwarf could answer, Zevran had deftly reached behind Oghren’s back and snatched what he had been holding from his hands.

“Hey! Give that back!” Oghren said with an indignant frown, attempting to snatch it back and nearly falling forward when Zevran held it out of his reach.

He muttered something like ‘nug humper’ when Zevran flipped open the cap and sniffed the contents. “Ah, I recognize this smell. It’s a fine Antivan brandy; one of my favorites in fact. I hardly think it would taste good in chilled tea, however.” He slipped the flask into the belt at his waist. “I think I will hold onto this for the remainder of the evening, to avoid any incidents.”

Oghren grunted, and he glared up at Zevran. After a moment of staring, he stalked off, and didn’t look back. Connor and Vitalia laughed from the other end of the table, and Arais smiled over at them. They walked over, their grins wide and exuberant. It was clear they were having a great time.

“Arais!” Vitalia said excitedly, her accent more pronounced. “You look so pretty. I love your dress.”

“You look very pretty, as well.”

And she did. Though stunning was more accurate. Her bright, aquamarine dress and silver jewelry complemented her dark skin beautifully. Her raven black hair was shaved down to the skin above and around her heavily pierced left ear. Thin, tight braids were arranged in a plait which came to rest over her right shoulder, reaching almost midway down her torso. Pearls and aquamarine crystals decorated the elaborate style, and it was tied off with a silver ribbon.

Her Antivan elegance certainly stood out among the traditional Fereldan attire worn by other guests.

Vitalia looked down at the ground, and then back up at Arais. “Thank you.” She smirked, and Arais realized then it was eerily similar to the smirk Zevran often wore. “Connor looks very nice tonight as well, don’t you think?”

His cheeks turned a radiant shade of pink, and he nudged Vitalia with his shoulder. “Tali!,” he cried, his voice cracking around the single word.

She toed the ground with the tip of her shoe, clasping her hands in front of her. She looked up at him, fluttering her lashes. “What? I’m only telling the truth. You do look very handsome!”

He turned an even darker shade of pink.

Zevran moved to stand beside Arais, and Vitalia immediately dropped the innocent facade, her eyes wide. Both Connor and Arais gave her confused looks when she moved to almost stand behind Connor.

“What’s the matter, Tali?” Connor asked, staring at her over his shoulder.

“Nothing!” she said, too quickly.

Arais glanced at Zevran, who stared at Vitalia with a familiar sort of fondness.

“Why are you in Ferelden, Talia?” he asked, and Arais froze. They knew one another?

Vitalia straightened her shoulders, and said, “The templars caught me practicing the magic my father was teaching me. I went without a fight, because I d-didn’t want them to find him, too.”

“That was very brave of you,” he said, a sly grin on his face that forced a smile from Arais.

She immediately slumped behind Connor again. Her confidence seemed to have once again failed her. “Thank you.”

“Forgive me if this seems presumptuous, but would you like to dance?” Zevran smiled at her, and held out his hand, close enough for her to take hold, but not so close she would be uncomfortable.

Vitalia looked down at his hand, her mouth slightly open. Then a small, almost shy smile crossed her lips, and she reached out and took his hand. As they walked side by side, Arais realized just how much Vitalia had grown in so little time - the top of her head was very nearly level with Zevran’s shoulders.

“Arais?” Connor said, a question in his voice. His cheeks were still mottled pink, and he stared down at the ground. “Would you . . . um . . . do you want to dance?”

The words came out so fast, they nearly ran together. “I would love to, Connor.”

He smiled up at her, and she took the hand he offered in a very similar manner to Teagan. She wondered just how much more alike they would be as Connor got older. He already had his uncle’s kindness. He was polite and understanding, and certainly wise beyond his years. Maybe it was due to his ordeal with the desire demon, but something told her he had held quite a bit of wisdom before that. He had certainly read his father like a book when he tried to manipulate Connor into turning against Isolde.

“You are a very fine dancer, Connor,” she commented. “You must have had a very good teacher.

“I did,” he replied. “My mother began teaching me when I was very small. I think I was six, but I’m not sure. Uncle began helping her when I was nine. Professional instructors who were brought in to help before I developed magic always said I had a knack for dancing. I practice with Vitalia in the Circle, but she’s more graceful with a staff than on the the dance floor.”

Two dances passed, and while the minstrels tuned their instruments for the next dance, she and Connor were approached by Teagan and Isolde. “May we cut in?” Isolde asked, sending a gracious smile in Arais’ direction. “I have yet to have the honor of dancing with you, Connor, and you seem to have improved even further.”

“I’d love to dance, Mother,” he said. Arais was almost certain she had never seen either mother or son look more happy to be with one another, and before they disappeared onto the dance floor, they shared a long hug.

When she looked around, she saw Vitalia had returned to the drinks table. She was on the alert for Oghren, should he try anything else. She seemed distracted, however, and more than a little embarrassed. Her eyes followed a couple on the dance floor, and Arais looked to see Wynne and Zevran dancing in her line of sight. He spoke, and she saw Wynne’s eyes narrow into a glare, though a grin pulled at the corners of her mouth.

Zevran was far too charming for his own good. It was barely a year ago Wynne would have lectured him for speaking to her in any manner that wasn’t strictly respectful.

The music began to play, and Teagan approached, offering his hand. When she took hold, he led her around the dance floor, and she was sure their bodies were closer together than was necessary. She could feel his breath warm against her cheeks, and his hands burned the skin of her waist through the thin silk of her wedding gown. Her breath caught in her throat when he brushed his lips across her cheek, and used the hand on her waist to pull her flush against him. The song ended, and Teagan stepped back from her, his lips drawn up in a smile.

He was teasing her, the bastard.

He held out his hand for her, and led her from the dance floor, toward the door. The minstrels struck up a lively tune, and Arais looked around. Vitalia and Zevran were once again dancing, and she seemed to have lost her shy demeanor. A mischievous grin twisted her lips upward. As she and Teagan passed close to them, she realized she couldn’t understand a word they were saying. Apparently Zevran had set the girl at ease by speaking to her in their native tongue. Vitalia laughed aloud, and smacked Zevran on the arm.

Isolde and Connor stood off to the side, his mother cradling his head against her shoulder, moisture in her eyes. She caught Arais’ gaze and smiled, and her eyes glimmered with gratitude. Arais smiled back, before Isolde and the rest of the guests were out of sight, and the door had closed behind her and Teagan.

“I don’t think I’ve properly expressed how beautiful you look, my love,” Teagan said, his hand squeezing hers gently. She smiled up at him, and after a moment, she realized he wasn’t leading her to their bedroom, but to the garden.

When they crossed the threshold, she felt the warmth of the late summer breeze like a breath across her skin. The scent of the flowers was exaggerated by the heat of the night. She stepped toward the hedge and touched the tips of her fingers to the roses in full bloom. It seemed even an innocent walk in the garden couldn’t prevent reminders of Alistair from revealing themselves. She released a heavy sigh; perhaps it was best to just get it over with?

“Is everything all right, Arais?” Teagan asked.

She stared at him for a long moment, studied the worried crease of his brow. If this was going to continue invading her thoughts, then yes, the sooner she spoke of it, the better. She sat on a nearby bench, and gestured for him to join her.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to make eye contact. “Zevran brought news to me before the wedding. I had . . .” she paused, and furrowed her brow. “I had asked him to see if he could find news of Alistair’s whereabouts since he disappeared. He received a letter from his contact in Kirkwall; apparently there is a man who has been seen there, and it is very likely Alistair.”

Teagan’s eyes went almost imperceptibly wider. “Was there mention of how he was doing?”

“Yes, but only that he seems to have not changed for the better. I’m not sure what that means, but I _am_ sure his opinion on my decision hasn’t changed much at all. He would probably be bitter, at best. I really don’t want to consider a worst case scenario.” She sighed, long and deep. “Honestly, I’m not sure what I’m going to do about it. For now, Zevran is going to Kirkwall to see if it truly is Alistair.”

“What will you do if it is him?” he asked, concerned for how she felt. Not surprising, seeing as he knew of her prior relationship with Alistair. He was privy to the pain his loss caused her, and how often she vacillated on whether she should approach him, should he be found.

She shrugged. “I haven’t thought much about it. I only found out today, and with recent events taking up so much of my time, I haven’t really had the chance.” She smiled, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “It’s fine, though. I made my peace with this before the coronation.” Her cheeks warmed. “I do believe you learned that first hand.”

He touched his hand to her face. “Indeed, I did.”

He leaned in and kissed her. She scooted closer to him on the bench until their legs touched, and she could feel the warmth of him through the layers of silk and cotton. When they pulled apart, she drew her thumb across his lips.

A thought occurred to her as she did this, and she suppressed a chuckle. “Is my lip paint terribly smudged?” she asked.

He tilted her head up toward the light, and inspected her lips at a close distance, his nose practically touching her chin. “Hmm, it doesn’t look like it. I could rectify that, if you wish?”

She giggled, and ducked her head to capture his lips. Her arms snaked around his neck, and one of his hands came up to tangle in her hair, his fingers brushing against the pins holding the circlet in place.

“Perhaps we should return to our guests?” he murmured against her lips, his hands sliding down to rest on her lower back.

She pulled away from him, arms still resting on his shoulder. “I suppose you’re right,” she agreed with a heavy sigh. His lips were smudged with her lip paint, and she smiled as she wiped it off with the inside of one of her sleeves. “You seem to be wearing more of this than I am, now.”

“It appears so.” His thumb slid along the edge of her lower lip, and he leaned in to kiss her again. His lips moved over hers with slow, languid movements, and when his tongue dipped out to trace over her lip, she opened herself to him. The intoxicating taste of cloves and cinnamon left her dizzy, disoriented, and her arms pulled tight around his neck as his fingers drew up along her sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“We really should return to the ball,” she mumbled, as he kissed over her jawline. “I’m sure we’ve been missed, by now.”

“No doubt you’re right,” he said, his breath warm against her. He leaned back, and she felt suddenly cold without him so close. He again brushed his thumb along her lips, cleaning off the smudged paint, though this time he did not follow it with a kiss. HIs hand brushed over her arm until his fingers were tangled with hers.

He pulled Arais to her feet as he stood, and she stepped into his arms, holding him around the waist. “I love you,” she said.

His hand came up to cup her cheek, and he brushed his nose against hers. “And I love you. I can honestly say I have not been happier than I am in this moment.”

“Nor have I.” She rested her head upon his chest. “You have completely changed my life. I really didn’t think I could ever be happy again after the Landsmeet, but you proved me wrong. You helped bring me back from a dark place, and now my life has never been brighter.”

“Your life isn’t the only one so drastically changed since we met.” He placed a kiss on the top of her head. “It seems the Maker truly did smile upon me when he brought you to Redcliffe.”


	2. Chapter 2

**_24 Harvestmere, 9:32 Dragon_ **

The sky was thick with clouds, a pale gray from the luminescence of the full moon they obscured. Lowtown was cast in an oppressive darkness, and the torches lit along the pathways did little to help. The flickering flames were swallowed by a near opaque mist, their glow merely a halo in the fog. 

There was a damp chill in the air, and Zevran shivered despite the cloak wrapped about his shoulders. A minor inconvenience, he decided, as the statue of a knight swinging by his feet came into view, which served as a sign for the Hanged Man. 

He approached the entrance, but froze. He had been set on finishing this as quickly as possible; all he needed to do was open the door and check the main room. If Alistair wasn’t there, Zevran could ask around and find out if he had been seen recently. If he was . . . 

Well, that was the problem, wasn’t it? He didn’t know what to do if he actually found Alistair. Arais hadn’t specified, and now he was torn between simply leaving or approaching Alistair and speaking to him for the first time in over a year.

With a resigned sigh, Zevran pushed open the door. He would cross that bridge when he stood before it; he didn’t doubt he would lose his nerve all together, otherwise. 

When he stepped over the threshold, he was hit with the overwhelming stench of piss and cheap ale. Not something he was unused to, but it surprised him all the same that Alistair would have chosen to hole up somewhere like this. 

The chorus of voices was a low hum as he searched the main room, and he could feel the gazes of curious patrons fall on him. There was no immediate sign of Alistair, so he stepped further into the room, and - weaving through splintered wooden tables - he approached an empty spot at the bar and placed his hands on the edge.

The bartender shuffled lazily over to him, looking entirely disinterested. “What can I get ya?”

“Oh, I’m not -”

“He’ll have a whiskey,” a voice said, and Isabela leaned on the counter beside him, her lips turned up in a casual smirk, “and not that watered down shit you give me, Corff.”

Corff rolled his eyes. “He’ll be paying extra, then.”

“Just put it on Varric’s tab,” she replied. She glanced over at Zevran as Corff disappeared into the back. “Trust me, you’re going to need it.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked, his knuckles strained as he gripped the counter.

She pointed. “That’s why.”

He pursed his lips as he followed her finger to a dark corner at the far side of the main room. A man sat alone at the small table, his hands wrapped around a half empty mug of ale. Short, shaggy blond hair and an unkempt beard obscured his features, the torchlight reflecting in glassy eyes. Zevran might have doubted Isabela’s judgment had a flash of silver at the man’s neck not caught his attention; an all too familiar amulet Arais had found in Redcliffe Castle’s study.

“Shit,” Zevran breathed. 

Isabela had severely understated just how much Alistair had changed over the course of a year. He was barely recognizable. 

“Mm,” Isabela hummed, one elbow resting on the counter as she sipped her whiskey. “He’s already well into his ale, too.” She glanced at him over her shoulder and motioned with her head. “Drink. I told you you would need it.”

His eyes fell to the half filled glass; he hadn’t even noticed Corff return. Zevran lifted it to his lips and relished the burn of the liquid sliding down his throat. He had known this would be difficult, but in that moment he thanked the Maker Arais hadn’t wanted to join him. He wasn’t sure she would have been able to handle such a drastic change.

“What are you going to do?” Isabela asked.

“I haven’t a clue. I thought the decision might be easier once I found him, but it appears I was mistaken.” He sighed and rested his forearms on the counter. “You would think eight months of tracking him would have given me an idea of what to do now.”

“Well, considering how he ended up here”--Isabela shifted to lean on her other elbow, facing him--“I wouldn’t let him off easy. I may not be the most reliable person in Thedas, but if the fate of the world depended on me and I abandoned it . . .” she trailed off and knocked back the rest of her whiskey. “I think, in that situation, I would deserve to have my ass handed to me.”

He thought of Arais and how devastated she had been when Alistair had stormed off, and the weeks of near catatonia which followed. It had taken so long for her to return to some semblance of normalcy. His grip tightened around his glass, and in that moment he was sure he could crush it with his bare hand. Isabela was right; Alistair had abandoned them when he was most needed. Perhaps he could be called a hypocrite for accusing Alistair of being selfish, but it didn’t make it any less true.

Zevran took slow, deep breaths, taming the rapid beat of his heart. Yes, he would confront Alistair, but it would do no good to be aggressive when he did so.

“Everything all right?”

Zevran glanced at Isabela, then down at his glass. “As it can be, yes.” He drank the rest of his whiskey in a single shot. “I will return shortly.”

“Best of luck, sweet thing.”

He steeled himself as he tossed his cloak on the bar and crossed to where Alistair sat. He pulled out a worn chair and fell into it, scooting forward to casually lean back. He stared across the table, unnoticed, as Alistair took a swig from his mug.

“Back already, Isabela? And here I thought you were finally leaving me in peace.” Alistair placed his ale down and lifted his eyes from the table, only to jump when he saw Zevran across from him. “Zevran? Is that you?”

“I’m surprised you recognized me through all that ale,” Zevran said.

Alistair narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, the words slurred.

“Looking for you, of course.” He folded his arms across his chest. “It took much longer to locate you than I expected. You were rather busy after you abandoned ship, weren’t you?”

“I -” His cheeks flushed an angry red. “Did you find me just to mock me, or is there another reason?”

“Oh, there are a number of reasons I decided to,” he replied. “Mocking you is only a bonus; consider it reparations for your cowardice.”

“Cowardice?” Alistair sputtered, an indignant frown creasing his brows. “I left because Arais betrayed  _ me _ . She knew what Loghain did, and she recruited him anyway!”

“And you didn’t trust that maybe she was making the right decision?” Zevran asked, head tilted to the side. “Your order was decimated in Ostagar. How was adding to your numbers in any way a bad idea?”

“We would have already had the numbers to face the Archdemon if Loghain hadn’t turned them from the border, and you damn well know that.” The slur was gone from his voice. “It was his fault we were in such a desperate situation in the first place.”

“Would it not have been a perfect punishment, then, to force him to join the Wardens?” Zevran lifted his hand to silence Alistair. “Regardless, I can’t help point out just how poor your judgment was regarding Loghain. Riordan was killed before he could make the killing blow, and that burden fell on Loghain’s shoulders. It was certain death he faced, but still he struck down the Archdemon.”

“If it was certain death, why does Loghain yet live?” Alistair bit out.

“Ah, something you would know, had you remained with us.” 

Alistair opened his mouth to speak, but stayed silent when Zevran fixed him with a steady glare.

“And where  _ were _ you when you learned the Blight had been defeated?” Zevran asked, a sharp edge to his voice. “Was it Jader? Or had you already left for Lydes?” Alistair’s eyes widened. “Mm, yes. It wasn’t just by chance I found you here. One of the few perks of being a Crow for so many years was having the chance to establish contacts across Thedas.

“I’m sure you’re more interested in why I believe you to be a coward, however.” Alistair made no move to reply, so Zevran pressed on. “You didn’t have faith in Arais’ decision, so you abandoned the Wardens. When you learned Loghain would be relocated to Montsimmard, you again shirked your duties to avoid facing your past mistakes.” 

“So you would rather have had me stay and face the man who killed my mentor?” Alistair asked, a sarcastic lilt to his voice.

“From what I understand, Loghain tried to warn the king he was putting hundreds of lives at risk, and his plan was foolhardy at best.” Zevran crossed his ankles beneath the table. “I do not believe retreating from the battle entirely was the right decision; Loghain was just as responsible for those deaths as King Cailan. Having spoken to the man myself many times, however, I have come to know he believes the same. He has taken responsibility for his actions, and accepted his punishment with dignity; he does not make excuses, unlike some.” 

Zevran was silent for a moment, sizing up the man in front of him. Alistair was a cross between bewildered and furious, but what was more notable was his silence. He made no attempt to argue, and instead stared at Zevran, lips pressed into a pale line.

“I am sorry you lost Duncan at Ostagar - truly, I am - but the blame cannot be placed fully on Loghain. Duncan was there when Loghain discussed strategy with the king, was he not?”

Alistair was still for a long moment before he offered a slight nod.

“So he was aware of the risks, and followed through with the plan regardless?”

“Yes, but -”

“Let me finish,” Zevran interrupted.

“Fine,” Alistair said with a huff.

“Thank you.” Zevran spread his legs and leaned forward, elbows resting atop the table. “He sent you to light a beacon, correct?”

“In the Tower of Ishal.” Alistair furrowed his brow. “What has that got to do with any of this?”

“Because while you were trapped in the tower, Morrigan’s mother was able to save you.” He paused. “Duncan may not have planned for it, but had he not sent you to the tower, you would be dead.”

Zevran went silent, allowing his words to sink in. Alistair stared at the table, his ale forgotten, and his eyebrows were drawn together in deep thought. Probably the alcohol was making it more difficult for him to think clearly, so Zevran sat - hands folded in front of him - and waited.

“I understand what you’re saying,” Alistair said, slowly, “but if the plan was Cailan’s idea, then how is Duncan also at fault? He couldn’t have backed out, even if he wanted to. He wouldn’t have put us in needless dang-”

"Alistair, stop it!” Zevran snapped, his fist hitting the table with a sharp thud; so much for remaining calm. “You are idealizing a man you knew only as a leader. He may have meant more to you, and to a degree, I do believe he cared for you as well. However, the decision to remain in the battle was no less his choice than it was Loghain's. He owed no fealty to your king. He could have pulled the Wardens out at any time, and yet he still allowed Cailan to lead his men like cattle to the slaughter, and very nearly Arais and yourself, as well.”

Alistair stared in stunned silence, his face a brilliant shade of red as his mouth hung slightly agape. 

“I have no doubt Duncan was a good man,” Zevran continued, “but what  _ you _ need to understand is he was not perfect. No man is. And if you’d had any respect for the legacy Duncan left behind or for the sacrifice he made, you would have done the honorable thing. You would have stood with the only other Warden to survive with you and a man trying to atone for his crimes and done your duty.”

He leaned back in his chair and gestured vaguely around him. “You have no one but yourself to blame for your situation. Not Riordan, not Loghain, and certainly not Arais. And you would do well not to suggest as much again.” He scowled. “She did nothing but care for you, and if you recall, she is the  _ only _ reason you’re even here speaking with me. Anora would have had your head to secure her throne, otherwise.”

“If I had known Arais was going to let Loghain live, I would have never agreed to abdicate the throne and end up in that situation in the first place,” Alistair spat. “I would have never let him live.”

A disbelieving laugh slipped from between Zevran’s lips. “Are you truly so foolish as to believe Arais would have let that happen? I do wonder if we speak of the same woman, or if the alcohol has sapped you of your memory.” He folded his arms. “Do you not remember how many people she mourned, even when she hardly knew them? How far out of her way she would go to save as many lives as possible, regardless of innocence? 

“We fought through the only home she knew for seventeen years and slaughtered abominations - who very well may have been her friends - to save a boy she knew only as an arl’s son. She made us climb to the frozen peak of a mountain; we faced an entire cult and a High Dragon to look for something that may not have even existed, just to save the man who raised you. She didn’t do that because of politics”--his voice rose to a shout--“she did that for  _ you _ !”

He took a series of deep breaths, his heart hammering in his chest.

“And, more to the point,” he continued, calmer, “she spared my life.  _ My _ life, when I had tried to kill you both. I felt no shame at the time; it was simply a job, and I had failed. Maker only knows why she showed me mercy, but she did, and more than once. She could have handed me over to the Crows and been done with me in Denerim, but she put herself in front of me and refused.” He glowered at Alistair. “So what, pray tell, makes you think she would have ever let you kill a man who actually showed  _ remorse _ ?”

Alistair remained silent, his expression stony. Even Zevran, for all his training in picking out the slightest details in order to read someone, could find nothing in Alistair in that moment.

“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” Zevran asked, his voice even. “Or is this your way of admitting you never truly knew Arais at all?”

Alistair’s eyes snapped to Zevran’s. “Of course I knew her. I loved her!”

“You loved her?” He shook his head with a derisive laugh. “You didn’t trust her, and all that proves to me is - whether or not you believe you loved her - you were too selfish to stand by her. You left, and you broke her fucking heart.” 

“That . . . that wasn’t what I wanted,” Alistair said, his voice suddenly quiet. “I just thought . . .”

“What? What did you think?” Zevran narrowed his eyes. “Did you think if you put your life on the line, if you threatened to leave, she would change her mind? Did you think you could manipulate her?”

“No, that’s not it!” Alistair’s eyes were pleading. “I swear, that wasn’t it. I didn’t want to leave, but I didn’t have a choice.”

“No, you’re right, you didn’t have a choice when Anora exiled you,” Zevran started, “but you did have a choice when you threatened to murder Anora’s father by trying to take the throne. As I said before, you decided not to trust Arais, and now you’re here, wallowing in self pity.”

Alistair pursed his lips. “So why are you really here?”

“Because Arais asked me to be.” Zevran shook his head. “If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have bothered, but it’s what she wanted. I would do anything for her; something you regrettably cannot relate to.”

“You would -” Alistair cocked his head to the side. “I see. That’s why you’re so angry with me.  _ You _ love her.”

“How observant of you,” he replied, voice sharp with sarcasm.

“And what about her?” Alistair’s eyes were cast down again. “Does she love you?”

“I can safely assure you she has moved on.” 

Alistair glanced back up, staring at him, but Zevran’s face remained impassive. They watched one another, and Alistair seemed almost desperate to find something to prove Zevran was lying. He slumped back in his chair, dejected, when he found nothing.

Rising from his seat, Zevran nodded his head at Alistair. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other business to attend to,” he said, and turned to walk away.

“Zevran, wait.”

He stopped, but only waited - body stiff - as he met Isabela’s curious gaze.

“Is Arais happy?” Alistair asked.

Zevran took a deep breath, a bubble of irritation burning in his chest.

He spun on his heel and slowly approached the table. "You know what, Alistair?” he said, placing his hands on the edge to lower himself to meet Alistair’s eyes. “You don't deserve to know. You lost the right when you left." His lips twisted into a sneer. "I hope it eats you alive, not knowing. It's no less than you deserve."

He pushed himself from the table and stalked away, nausea twisting his stomach. Without so much as a glance back, he snatched his cloak from the bar beside Isabela and left the tavern, his whole body burning with an anger he hadn’t thought himself capable of any longer. He sped down the steps onto the path leading to the docks, the chill autumn mist cool against his heated skin.

“Zevran!” Isabela shouted.

He ignored her as he rounded a corner, but found he had taken a wrong turn into an alleyway. When he turned to find his way back to the main path, he nearly collided with Isabela. 

Zevran tried to step around her, but she grabbed his arm before he could pass. “Zevran, stop.”

“I’m leaving, Isabela.” He stared straight ahead, his heart tight in his chest. “I should never have come here.”

“Then why did you?” she asked.

“Because someone asked me to find him. Had I a choice in the matter, I would have let sleeping dogs lie.”

“You did have a choice.” Her voice was quiet, yet firm. “You could have said no.”

“No, I couldn’t have,” he said, his eyes now on the stone beneath his feet.

“Was he a mark? If so, you’ve lost your touch.”

“I wasn’t paid for this.” Zevran drew an unsteady breath. “A friend needed closure, and I could not refuse her.”

“Why didn’t she come herself, if closure was so important to her?”

He met her eyes then. “The Warden is a busy woman, Isabela.”

“Ward-” She gaped at him. “You’re  _ friends _ with the Hero of Ferelden?”

“I believe she would prefer you call her Arais; she’s not overly fond of that title.” He pulled his arm from her grasp and leaned against a dusty wall. “But yes, we are friends.”

“ _ How _ ? I assumed you were only with her out of convenience.”

“To make an exceedingly long story short”--he lifted a foot to rest on the wall--“I was hired by Teyrn Loghain and Arl Howe to assassinate the last of the remaining Wardens. I failed and she spared my life.”

“Oh, that explains everything! Because all of us would befriend our attempted  _ murderer _ .” She rested her back against the wall opposite him. “The Zevran I know would never have let a mark get away.”

“She didn’t get away, precisely. She brought me with her, offering plenty of opportunities for a second attempt, but I had a Qunari and a rather powerful mage to contend with. The risk was not worth the reward, so I switched my allegiance.” He looked up at the clouds, still thick as ever. “I believe I made the right decision.”

“Your bosses must be thrilled,” she said, shaking her head. “What are you going to do when they decide to hunt you down?”

“Oh, they have already started.” Her eyes widened, but he simply shrugged. “They tracked me to Denerim, and I made quick work of those they sent to find me.”

“All on your own?” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re good, but you’re not  _ that _ good.”

“You wound me, Isabela. I haven’t even told you how many there were.” This time, his lopsided grin was more genuine. “But, sadly, you are right. Had it not been for Arais’ merciful nature, I’m rather sure I would not be here now.” 

His smile faltered, and his eyes fell to the ground.

They were quiet for a long while, the silence between them as heavy as the fog. Zevran tried to avoid thinking of what fate would have awaited him had he returned to the Crows, of the consequences of surviving at all. There were nights when sleep was elusive, and his mind would conjure memories of what had happened to those who had failed in the past. 

It was those nights when the urge to disappear was strongest, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Not when he had likely endangered Arais’ life by allowing her to interfere with the Crows a second time. If there was even the slightest chance she could be used against him, he would rather turn himself over than have any harm come to her. To even be this far away left him with a persistent knot of anxiety low in his stomach.

He jumped when Isabela leaned against the wall beside him. “Where were you planning to run off to in the middle of the night, anyway?” she asked.

“Antiva,” he replied, breathing deep to calm his suddenly rapid heartbeat.

“To see the family you know in the alienage?” 

He nodded, surprised she remembered. 

“Well, you’re not going to find a ship out of here in this fog,” she said with a smirk. “You can stay in my room at the Hanged Man.”

“I won’t go back there,” he said sharply, “I don’t want to know what would happen if I had to face Alistair again.”

“Fair enough.” She made a soft humming noise, her brows knit together in thought. Suddenly, she snapped her fingers. “I think I have somewhere you can stay; follow me.”

* * *

 

Rain was beginning to fall as they reached the merchant’s bazaar, though only a light mist whispered through the streets of Hightown. Zevran lifted the hood of his cloak over his head and glanced over the railing, fighting off a wave of vertigo as he stared down; what would have been the port was merely a fog as thick as the clouds above, rolling across the sea. He lifted his gaze towards the Gallows, where the ominous silhouette of the dual towers rose above the gloom.

A chill ran up his spine; Kinloch Hold had never once felt so threatening, even filled with demons as it had been.

“Are you coming?” Isabela called.

Zevran turned to follow as she crossed the bazaar, grateful for the interruption. Nothing good could come from a place such as that, he was sure of it. 

“You tease me for knowing the Hero of Ferelden,” he said, trailing behind her as she turned another corner, “yet it seems I am not the only one to have found friends in high places.”

She smirked at him over her shoulder. “Hawke didn’t save the world. She’s just your average rags to riches noblewoman.”

“Is she?” he asked, falling into step beside her. “And how did she manage such a thing?”

“Not very easily,” she said with a chuckle. “She was a refugee from Ferelden when we met, and she dragged me to the Deep Roads for some expedition Varric’s brother had been planning.”

“That must have been wonderful for you. You’ve never been a fan of enclosed spaces.”

“I wasn’t, and less so now that it’s over.” She shivered violently for a moment. “Varric’s bastard of a brother locked us in a vault after he got what he wanted. It took us ages to find another way out, and of course we couldn’t manage that without running into a primeval rock monster.” 

“A rock monster?” 

“A  _ primeval _ rock monster. As in, we found it in the oldest thaig the dwarves know about. At least, that’s what Varric said.” She shook her head. “I still have nightmares about that thing.”

“Remind me to tell you of the broodmother we encountered during the Blight. Rock monsters will be the least of your concerns.”

“I would rather you didn’t,” she laughed, before she shuddered again. “It was the worst we faced, but there were demons down there, too. Anders was nearly driven mad by it all; must have been a mage thing.”

“Anders . . . he was a Warden in Amaranthine, was he not?”

“Of course you know him.” Isabela stopped and looked over at him. “He served under . . . Arais, right?”

“He did.” He gestured for her to continue, and they began walking again. “Though I’m surprised he’s here. Kirkwall is not exactly known for its kindness to mages.”

“I think that was the point, but I stopped paying attention after a while. Nothing that man says makes sense to me.” She shrugged. “A damn good healer, though, so at least he’s useful.”

Zevran laughed. “I believe Arais would agree with you, if what she said after he left Amaranthine had any merit.”

“Ooh”--she nudged him with her shoulder--“are you going to share, or do I need to beg?”

“It was nothing truly scandalous,” he replied, smiling. “It seemed they disagreed on how to go about loosening the Chantry’s grip on the Circles. She was able to work out an agreement with Grand Cleric Elemena to allow mages in Ferelden the right to see their families. Eventually Elemena agreed to enforce a more stringent code of conduct with the templars, as well. Arais had insisted after an incident with her husband’s nephew when he was brought to Kinloch Hold.”

“ _ Husband _ ?”

His heart heavy in his chest, he took a deep breath. “Ah, yes. She was married to the arl of Redcliffe in Solace.”

“An arl?” She whistled. “She has it all, doesn’t she?”

“I suppose she does,” he said, his voice quiet.

He could feel Isabela’s eyes on his face. “Is something the matter?”

“Not at all.” He glanced over at her. “I suppose I’m just tired; it has been a long day.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but ultimately only turned her gaze to the streets ahead of them. “We’re almost there.” She was quiet for a moment. “So what did Anders disagree with? He never shuts up about the big, terrible templars, so I don’t see what the problem is.”

“Apparently, he is not quite as patient as Arais. Where she would enforce change slowly over time, he would prefer it happen immediately, with brute force. As unrealistic as it no doubt is, Arais was never able to convince him otherwise.”

“Now that you mention it, that does sound like the Anders I know.”

He shrugged. “Arais believes that is why he left; she refused to use her power - which she never wanted in the first place - to force change at the expense of what little safety mages are allowed as it is, and they could never come to an agreement.”

“ _ Definitely _ Anders,” she confirmed with a smirk. “Hawke may very well put an arrow in him if he doesn’t stop insisting his way is the only way to keep her sister safe.”

“What happened to her sister?” Zevran asked.

“I really shouldn’t say.” She frowned. “You know I normally would, but . . . this is different. It isn’t my place.”

They reached the end of the side street and crossed into a courtyard, an evergreen surrounded by four towering pillars at the center. Mansions loomed above them to either side, and ahead of them an almost endless staircase rose from the misty fog, the top steps lost in the darkness. 

“This is it.”

He turned to see Isabela had veered off to the left. She stood beside a tall gap where the door to a mansion was set. Two iron shields were affixed to the pillars on either side, a deep red crest emblazoned on the surface of each. The crest appeared to be of two birds facing one another, intersecting lines forming wings which met at the center. 

It almost looked as if they were holding each other. 

He stopped in front of Isabela, who stared at him with her head cocked to the side. “Can’t figure it out?”

“The crest?”

She nodded. “I’ve stared at that thing for ages, and can’t for the life of me see anything that isn’t dirty.”

“Isabela!” he laughed quietly. “Isabela, they’re  _ birds _ . Doves, I believe.”

“Oh, I know,” she said, her grin mischievous. “Doesn’t stop me from seeing something dirty.”

“I should have known.”

“Yes, you should have.” She giggled before turning to look over her shoulder at the door. “All right, wait here. I’ll be right back.”

She disappeared around the nearest pillar, and he heard a knock followed by a dog barking as he wandered over to the wall. The rain was coming a bit harder now, hard enough to cause a quiet tapping sound against the wooden crate beside him. He folded his arms beneath his cloak, a chilled breeze billowing it around his knees and whipping the rain underneath his hood.

“Miss Isabela,” a deep voice said when the door opened, “a pleasure to see you. You’re out rather late.”

“Aren’t I always?” she replied with a soft chuckle. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to speak with Hawke.”

“It’s no bother, Miss, I’ll fetch her for-” A loud bark cut him off, and he made a loud, “Mmph!” before a mabari came charging from beneath the awning, whirling back around to face the door.

“Cori!” Isabela laughed as the dog jumped up to try and lick her. “Yes, yes, it’s good to see you, too, but I need to speak to your owner.”

The mabari whined.

Isabela huffed. “All right, fine, but only one.”

The dog leapt towards her when she lowered herself to one knee. Cori licked her face far more than once, and Isabela laughed. When the dog jumped backwards and whirled around as Isabela stood, Zevran chuckled; Cori froze, head cocked to the side. Zevran fell silent, but still the dog turned to him. She growled low in her throat, but it didn’t faze Zevran, having received the same reception from Barkspawn when they first met.

“It’s okay, Cori,” Isabela said gently. “He’s a friend.”

“Who is?” the man asked from the doorway.

She gestured for Zevran to come forward, and as he did, he gave Cori a wide berth.

“Bodahn, this is-”

“Bodahn?” Zevran reached the door and, indeed, there stood the same dwarf who had carted his wares with them during the Blight. “Maker’s breath, it really is you.”

“Fancy running into you here, Zevran.” Bodahn offered him a warm smile. “What brings you to Kirkwall?”

“A favor for Arais,” he said, deliberately vague. “And what of you? It seems you’re making a pattern of ending up in the most unlikely of places.”

“It appears so, yes,” Bodahn laughed. “I was part of an expedition in the Deep Roads, and my boy wandered off on his own. The darkspawn would have gotten him for sure if Lady Hawke hadn’t gone to find him.”

“I still don’t understand why you were worried,” Isabela said. “Sandal had frozen an ogre with one of his . . . enchantment . . . things by the time we found him.” 

“It isn’t the first time he’s gotten himself out of a dangerous spot, but his runes only have so much power if they’re not inscribed in a weapon.” 

“I thought dwarves couldn’t perform magic?” she asked.

“It isn’t magic, per se,” Zevran said. “Arais explained it to me. She said only Tranquil can enchant weapons, I believe because their connection to the Fade is severed.”

“Oh, that’s right. Dwarves can handle raw lyrium because of their immunity to magic.” Zevran and Bodahn both stared at her, and she glared. “What? I’ve handled more than my fair share of dubious shipments. You learn things.”

Zevran chuckled. “True enough.”

“So,” Isabela said, the vowel drawn out for a moment. “Did you manage to meet everyone in Thedas during the Blight?”

“Of course not,” Zevran replied with a smirk. “Just in Ferelden.”

Cori suddenly barked and ran past Bodahn back into the mansion. Cori came into view again, circling around the legs of a tall woman. A band tied at the nape of her neck held back tightly curled black hair, elegant lavender finery complementing her dark skin. 

“Ah, Lady Hawke!” Bodahn said quickly. “I was just about to fetch you.”

“Thank you, Bodahn,” she replied with a tense smile. “I’ll be inside in a moment.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He bowed to Isabela and Zevran. “A pleasure, as always.”

“Why are you here, Bela?” Hawke asked when the door clicked behind Bodahn. Her eyes turned to Zevran, her head angled ever so slightly to the side. “And who is that?”

“He’s why I’m here,” Isabela replied. “This is Zevran; he’s a friend.”

“Like that merchant you introduced me to when we met?”

Isabela rolled her eyes. “You’re never going to let that go, are you, Gwyn?”

“Not anytime soon,” she deadpanned. She glanced over at Zevran before she continued. “Why did you bring him here?”

“It’s a long story,” Isabela answered, hesitant.

“Make it short, then. It’s late.”

“You’re pissier than usual tonight.” Hawke narrowed her eyes, and Isabela raised her hands. “Fine, fine. He came to talk to someone holed up in the Hanged Man, it went poorly, and now he needs somewhere else to stay to avoid any other problems.”

She eyed Isabela warily. “Problems? Am I going to have to worry about a visit from Aveline? I’m really not in the mood for her shit tonight.”

“Nothing like that, I assure you,” Zevran replied. “You have no reason to trust me, of course, but he was an old friend. I did nothing to injure him, aside from a blow to his ego.”

“You’re right. I don’t trust you.” She heaved an exasperated sigh, her eyes closed. “But I do trust Isabela, so I’ll give you a chance to explain yourself. Come inside; it’s freezing out here.”

She disappeared inside the house with Cori at her heels, and Zevran and Isabela followed. The mansion was far smaller than those Zevran had grown used to during his time in Ferelden, though no less impressive, by any means. A chandelier hung high above the large foyer, and a fire burned low in the hearth, the marble blackened from years of use. A lush red carpet lay centered upon the tiled floor, matching curtains drawn closed over high windows. 

They walked past a pillar to their left with a small brazier - its light casting flickering shadows on the stone - before Hawke led them into a library. There was a small sitting area set up before a fireplace larger than the one in the foyer, and Bodahn stood near the hearth, reaching out to stoke the fire, its flames licking up toward the flue.

Hawke dropped onto the sofa across from the fire. “Sit. I’m sure this conversation is going to take a while.”

“Ever the optimist,” Isabela teased as she plopped into a chair. 

“Am I wrong?” she asked.

Isabela shrugged. “Probably not.”

Hawke lifted her legs onto the chair, Cori jumping up to rest her head on Hawke’s calves. “Then I’ll hold onto my pessimism until I have a reason not to,” Hawke said, though she smirked. She turned her head to face Zevran as he hung his cloak over a chair and sat. “So why  _ exactly _ are you here? And don’t be vague; I don’t have the patience for it.”

“As you wish,” Zevran said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m only here because I was asked to be. A friend in Ferelden had me track down Alistair - the man at the tavern - because he had disappeared during the Blight.”

“Ferelden?” she asked, one brow quirked upward. “You sound Antivan.”

“Indeed, I am,” he said. “I was sent to Ferelden on business just after the Blight had begun.”

“What kind of business?”

“You weren’t exaggerating your impatience,” he laughed. “Well, if I’m to earn your trust, I suppose the truth is the only option. I am an assassin.”

“A Crow, I assume,” she stated. “Who was your mark?”

“The Hero of Ferelden.”

She showed no sign of surprise; rather, she offered a sardonic smile. “Clearly you failed. It’s a wonder you’re still alive.”

“A sentiment we share,” he agreed. “She took me with her to ensure I would not make another attempt on her life, or the life of the other Warden who survived Ostagar.” He brought his arms to rest on the chair. “That would be Alistair.”

“Ah, so his ravings about being a Warden were true.” She frowned. “He’s certainly taken a turn for the worse.”

“No doubt you’re right.” 

Hawke watched him for a moment, her dark eyes steady. “Why did the Hero of Ferelden send you to find him? Is there a punishment for defecting from the Wardens?”

“If there is, I am not aware of it.” He shrugged. “That was hardly Arais’ intent, regardless. She simply wanted to be sure he was safe, wherever he was. Nothing more.”

“She cared for him?”

He nodded. “She still does, to a degree, but she has moved on.”

“Moved on?” She cocked her head to the side. “So she has taken on a new lover, then?”

Isabela laughed. “You’re awfully interested in the Hero of Ferelden’s personal life, Gwyn.”

“And?” she asked, casting a brief glare at Isabela over her shoulder. “You brought him here; I’m just being thorough.”

“All I’m saying is you would never have let me get away with asking anyone a question like that,” she teased.

“Yes, well, my motivations are different.” Isabela snorted, but Hawke ignored her and focused her attention back on Zevran. “So has she?”

“Yes, though they’re far from being mere lovers.” He was careful to keep the emotion bubbling in his chest from his face. “She is married to the arl of Redcliffe, and quite happily.”

She cringed, just a bit. “I thought Eamon was already married?” 

“Oh, Maker, no, not Eamon,” he said with a sharp laugh. “His brother, Teagan, has taken up the mantle, as it were.” 

“Right, the bann of Rainesfere.” Her hand scratched idly behind Cori’s ears. “It’s good to hear she’s doing well for herself. Rumors of how Ferelden fared after the Blight were conflicting, and the only ones I heard were about the darkspawn, the Wardens, or the throne.” She paused. “The Warden at the Hanged Man, Alistair . . . is he also the bastard son of King Maric?”

“So he’s been saying that during his drunken exploits as well?” Zevran asked, and she nodded. “That is also true. He was exiled when the throne was left to Queen Anora.”

“Well, shit,” Isabela said in a low voice. “I’d be as drunk as he always is, too, if I had to go through half as much.”

“It’s hard for me to feel sorry for him after what he put Arais through,” Zevran said, a bit harsher than he intended, “but it is in the past. At least Arais will know he’s safe.”

“And is that all you’ll tell her? That he’s safe?” Hawke asked, her voice tense. “You won’t tell her the state he’s in?”

“There’s hardly any point,” his voice hardened at the accusation in her tone. “It would only cause her further concern, and she deserves to enjoy the new life she has found for herself.”

“Lying through omission is no better than any other lie,” she snapped, sitting up. “She deserves more than half truths.”

“Gwyn, take it easy,” Isabela said, standing to place a hand on Hawke’s shoulder. “You don’t even know the woman.”

Hawke shrugged away Isabela’s hand. “Maybe not, but she should still know.”

“Why  _ do  _ you care so much, if I might ask?” His eyes narrowed. “You do seem incredibly invested in the life of a stranger.”

Hawke pursed her lips and leaned back into the sofa. “Did you know the mansions in Kirkwall are all named for those who built them? The families who have established themselves as nobility?”

“I was not aware, but i hardly see what this has to -”

“This mansion - the one my mother and I reclaimed - is not the Hawke Estate,” she continued, as if she hadn’t heard him. “We chose to continue using my mother’s name, seeing as it once belonged to her family, and she never took my father’s when they were married.”

Zevran held back an irritated sigh. “And what name is that?”

“Amell.”

He narrowed his eyes, suspicion furrowing his brow.

“You’re related to the Hero of Ferelden?” Isabela asked, stunned as she sat back down. “You’ve never mentioned that before.”

“I had no reason to,” Hawke answered, her voice placid once more. “It wasn’t important; it’s not like she and I have ever met.”

“Then how did you find out?” he asked, doubt clear in his voice. She shot him a derisive glare, but he only smirked. “Forgive me if I don’t immediately take you at your word. This is an exceptional coincidence, and a woman with Arais’ reputation - honorable though it may be - has enemies; people with every reason to lie to get close enough to hurt her.”

She pursed her lips as she crossed her arms over her chest defensively. “I would argue, except you make a fair point.”

“Then you should have no problem answering such a simple question,” he stated.

She tilted her head, and there seemed to be a growing glimmer of respect in her eyes. “My mother told me,” she answered. “Arais is her cousin’s daughter. Mother hadn’t seen Revka in over twenty years when the Blight started. She had no idea Arais was a mage - let alone that she had been brought to a Circle in Ferelden - until the rumors spread to Kirkwall. Shit, she didn’t even know Revka was dead until we came here and my uncle told her.”

“He never contacted her while you were in Ferelden?” Zevran asked.

“As far as I know, my mother never told anyone where she had gone. My father was a mage, and they eloped against her parents’ wishes.” 

Isabela crossed her legs over the arm of her chair and huffed. “You’ve never told me any of this. Why does Zevran get all the fun stories?”

“ _ He _ asked,” Hawke answered with a shrug. “Besides, he answered my questions; it’s only fair I answer his.” She turned back to him. “Though I do have one more for you.”

Zevran held out his hands in invitation. “By all means.”

She stared at him for a moment, silent, and the intensity of her gaze left him wary. Of course, considering the conversation had been far more involved than he had expected, he wondered what kind of question required such a dramatic pause.

“Why do you want to hide the state Alistair is in from Arais?”

He went quiet, unsure how to answer. The truth felt cruel to him now, but it didn’t dissuade him from following through on it. However, despite her relation to Arais, Hawke was far from a confidante. He mulled it over in his head for another moment, and a memory pushed itself forward.

_ Is Arais happy? _

His heart beat a rapid tempo in his chest, and he pressed his lips together in a thin line. The words he had all but snarled at Alistair in response to that simple question came back with jarring clarity.

“It’s no less than Alistair deserves,” he responded, the words echoing those in his head.

Hawke quirked an eyebrow. “What kind of answer is that?”

“Allow me to explain myself, if I am unclear,” he said, biting back the urge to snap at her. “I believe I have understated just how severe the pain he caused Arais was when he left. You assumed them only lovers, but they were more than that. She loved him dearly, and did everything she could to make him happy.

“And how did he repay her?” His voice began to shake, and he drew a long breath. “When the Archdemon was at Denerim’s door and Arais recruited another Warden so they stood a better chance of victory, Alistair put his pride before the fate of Thedas. He couldn’t stand to let that one man live so the rest of us may survive.

“Yet even as her heart  _ shattered _ , Arais had the kindness left within it to convince Anora to spare his life.” Anger boiled in his gut, and he closed his eyes against the stinging threat of tears. “I was forced to watch a husk of the woman I had come to know continue to serve the Wardens. It took weeks until she spoke again, and even then, only after I found her on the brink of taking her own life.”

A weight settled on his lap, and he glanced down to see Cori staring up at him, her eyes sad. It only served to further remind him of that night, and of Barkspawn’s concerned whines as Wynne tended to Arais. 

“Alistair should be grateful for the concern she has already afforded him, in spite of all he has done. That he has chosen to wallow in the mistakes he made while blaming all others but himself is not her problem, nor should it be.”

Cori whined up at him, but his eyes remained on Hawke. Her expression was blank as she held his gaze; it was almost infuriating how difficult she was to read.

“What did Alistair do to you?” she asked.

He almost laughed. “What an absurd question. Have you not been listening?”

“Oh, I have.” She swung her legs to the floor and crossed her ankles beneath the sofa, her hands on her lap. “And what I’ve heard is what he’s done to Arais. What I want to know is what he did to  _ you _ , personally.”

“I -” He clenched his jaw against a swell of irritation. “You wanted to know why I would rather keep Alistair’s condition from her, and I’ve told you. What do his transgressions against me matter?”

“Well,” she started, her steady gaze almost unsettling in its sudden intensity, “the only reason I can see for you to be so angry with him is because he did something to you, personally. And if you can’t give me a better reason, I assume it’s because he hurt the woman you love.”

His eyes widened imperceptibly.

“Oh!” Isabela said before he got a chance to respond. “When we were walking here, you got all quiet when I asked about Arais’ husband.”

“Your point?” he replied, his voice slightly unsteady.

“You do, don’t you?” She sat up and stared at him with a sad smile. “You love her.”

“What good would it do me to admit to it, Isabela?” he bit out. “She loves Teagan;  _ married _ Teagan. I could proclaim my love for her from the tallest peak in Thedas and it wouldn’t change a damned thing. I have accepted as much, so why must I reopen this wound?”

Isabela said nothing and leaned back in her seat, her small smile gone.

Cori’s head left his lap, and the only sound was her returning to the sofa to lay beside Hawke. Silence had fallen like a blanket over the room, suffocating in its weight. Zevran’s breath shook when he inhaled, and he dropped his gaze to his lap as his eyes began to burn. Maker, he was a fool to believe time away from her would help, and as tears slipped down his cheeks of their own will, he wondered if anything ever would.

“Does she know?” Isabela asked.

He shook his head. “There was never a right time to tell her.”

“Does anyone?” It was Hawke this time, and her voice was quiet. She sounded concerned.

He rubbed his hands over his face to clear away the moisture. “You mean aside from you two?” he replied, looking up at Hawke.

She nodded. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I suppose it’s a fair question.” He offered a half-hearted smirk. “You did manage to uncover my feelings in a single conversation, after all.”

“It wasn’t my intention,” she said, her eyes soft with contrition. “I only wanted to know if I could trust you.”

His gaze shifted between her and Isabela. 

“There are others who know, yes,” he started. “Our friend, Leliana, and Arais’ mentor, Wynne.” He ran his hands back through his hair, his elbows resting on his knees. “Teagan knows, as well,” he said, voice quiet as his eyes focused on the maroon carpet.

“Her husband knows?” Hawke asked, surprised. “How?”

“I told him, though not in so many words.” He angled his head to stare into the fire. “Arais had suffered a severe injury during the fight with the Archdemon, and was in a coma for nearly a month. Wynne and I spent all of our time with her, and I wasn’t wholly surprised when Teagan was there almost as often.”

“Why not?” Isabela asked.

“They were already . . . involved, to a point. As far as I know, it had been only one kiss, but . . .” He sighed. “At any rate, he and I began to talk. It was obvious to me how he felt, and perhaps he had been aware of my own feelings already, but neither of us said as much outright. One night, he had been arguing with his brother, and I offered him my guest room at the palace, since I would be staying with Arais.

“The next morning, he shared something with me and . . . Maker, I don’t know. I wanted to help him the way Arais had helped me, so I told him what I had learned from her. We never mentioned her by name, and yet Teagan knew somehow. When he asked if I loved her, I was honest with him; I had no reason not to be.” His chest tightened. “However, I had seen them together, and . . . Well, it wasn’t my name she whispered when she woke from her coma.” 

Zevran forced himself to breathe. “The only thing I ever wanted was for her to be happy, and that hasn’t changed.” He looked to Hawke, his jaw clenched and shoulders squared. “I can promise it never will.”

“I believe you.” She abruptly rose from the sofa. “I’ll show you to the guest room. Judging by the fire, I’m sure Bodahn has gone to bed by now.”

He stood and folded his cloak over his arm. “Thank you, Hawke.”

“Call me Gwyneth,” she said.

“If that is what you prefer.”

She offered a small smile before she glanced over at Isabela. “It’s probably pouring by now. You can stay as well, if you want.”

“I don’t mind walking back to the Hanged Man,” Isabela said.

“I know you can take care of yourself, but it’s late and . . .” Gwyneth pursed her lips, releasing an exasperated huff through her nose. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

Isabela’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. Slowly, though, her lips turned up in a casual smirk. “When have you ever known me to be in any real danger, Hawke?”

“More often than I’m comfortable admitting.”

Gwyneth gestured for Zevran to follow her and exited the library. He noticed Isabela didn’t immediately trail after them. Instead, she watched as Gwyneth left the room, a puzzled frown on her lips. 

“Isabela?” Her eyes snapped to his, and he tilted his head to the side. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” she said quickly, her eyes jumping to his. “I really should go. Varric owes me a round of Wicked Grace, and I plan on winning back the sovereigns the little shit pilfered from me in our last game.”

He nodded with a chuckle and followed Isabela from the library. Gwyneth seemed to have not noticed his absence as he fell into step behind her on the staircase, or did an impeccable job pretending as much. He glanced over his shoulder briefly, and found Isabela staring past him at Gwyneth from just outside the foyer. There was something almost hesitant in her gait as she turned to leave at last, her shoulders rigid as she disappeared toward the exit to Hightown.

Gwyneth turned into a small alcove, where a portrait of a young couple hung above a table with a vase of white lilies. They were shown from the bust up, a woman with dark eyes not unlike Hawke’s in front of a man with light bronze skin, his eyes a strikingly light blue. Her dark hair was braided back in curved, even rows to her crown. There the braids wrapped into an elegant bun, a white lily pinned where the bun met the top of her head. 

The man had a strong, square jaw, with high cheekbones. His shoulder length hair hung loose, save a single braid tucked behind his ear, and he had a neatly trimmed beard the same dark brown as his hair. The woman held his hand over her right shoulder, and there was a ring with a small stone on her third finger. 

“That’s Revka and her husband, Olivier,” Gwyneth said beside him. 

“Olivier is Arais’ father?” he asked.

She nodded. “Nobody knows what happened to him, or so my uncle says; I’ve learned his words aren’t worth much.” 

He looked closer at the painting, wondering if he might notice more similarities. Something in the set of Revka’s brow and the way her lips curved up into a soft smile reminded him of Arais. Olivier’s hair had the same rippling waves, and when his eyes were drawn to Olivier’s, he noticed the light blue he had initially seen was actually a clear, glowing silver. 

He stepped away from the painting and turned to Gwyneth. “Olivier was Orlesian, I take it?”

“Mm. Mother said he was a good man, but he had a terrible sense of humor. She found him rather insufferable, more often than not.” She smirked. “Supposedly Revka thought it was charming.” Gwyneth pushed open the door beside her and gestured for him to step through first, a finger pressed to her lips in warning. 

Across the threshold was a small, rectangular room with a set of stairs ahead of the entrance, and a door off to the right. The entry door closed softly behind him before Gwyneth stepped forward and led him up the stairs. There was a turn at a landing that led to the third floor, and at the top landing was a sitting area, a small, white marble fireplace built into the far wall. 

More portraits hung on the walls, and he recognized a portrait of Revka hung behind a settee pushed against the wall. Her hair was unbraided and held back with an ornamental headband. It resembled Gwyneth’s current style, though the tight curls were not quite as voluminous.

Another on the opposite wall required a double take before he realized it was not of Gwyneth herself, but rather a woman who looked remarkably like her. He paused to study the features of her face; her nose was just a bit narrower, her jaw and brow more pronounced, but there was no questioning the uncanny resemblance to Gwyneth. Particularly the deep, near obsidian brown eyes set beneath dark, arched brows.

“That’s my mother, Leandra.” 

He glanced to where she stood beside him. Her eyes were distant, almost hollow as she stared at the portrait, her arms crossed over her chest. She scratched absently at the side of her neck, her shoulders falling into a slump.

“Is something the matter?” he asked.

She shook her head before she turned to him, her expression now impassive. “The guest rooms are just down the hall. There are two, so you can choose.”

He nodded, though he eyed her with concern. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’ll be fine.” She offered an insincere half smile. “There are spare clothes in the wardrobes; you’re free to use whatever you need. Bodahn can launder yours tomorrow.” She nodded to him. “Sleep well; I’ll see you in the morning.”

She walked past him quickly before he had a chance to respond, and he watched her go with a baffled shake of his head. Gwyneth Hawke was an enigma of a woman; every time he thought he had a solid read on her, she threw in another conflicting facet of her personality. While it would be frustrating from most others, he didn’t wholly mind with her. He had thought the same of Arais, once upon a time.

It surprised him how similar they were, despite having never met. Certainly Gwyneth was much more hesitant to take one at their word, but her concern for others - whether it was wanted or not - seemed to be a shared family trait.

He took one last look at the portrait of Leandra. Her expression was more stern than Revka’s, and if that was an accurate reflection of her personality, it could explain Gwyneth’s harsher demeanor, perhaps even the hint of bitterness her face had betrayed.

With a slight shrug, he slipped down the hall and stepped into the first room, the inside illuminated by a small number of candles affixed to the walls. It was simple, the furnishings plain, but refined. It was immaculate in its cleanliness, not a speck of dust visible on the mahogany nightstands. The sheets were tucked in tight at the corners, not a wrinkle to be seen on their surface. 

He pushed the door shut with a quiet click, careful not to make any noise. The wardrobe was set against the wall behind the door, and he hung his cloak on one of the hooks on the inside of the door before he took dry clothes from the shelves within. He folded his damp clothes and placed them on a chair after he changed.

His mouth opened with a long, drawn out yawn, his back cracking as he stretched. Maker, he hadn’t realized just how tired he was. The day had been long, to be sure, but it had been a while since he had felt so drained of energy. Then again, it had also been quite long since he had experienced so many emotions over the course of mere hours.

Once he had extinguished the candles, he slipped beneath the blankets and looked up at the ceiling. He wondered now how Arais might react to the full truth of Alistair’s condition, and it sent his mind racing. No doubt she would be worried as he thought, but perhaps it wouldn’t be quite as terrible as expected. She had truly moved on, that much was clear, and Gwyneth was right to believe Arais deserved to know.

However, it was the very idea of her reacting poorly to the news which cause him continued doubt. It was safer to keep it from her unless it was necessary to tell her. If he was forced to tell her, then he would; he could never lie to her if she asked. Until she did so, however, he would let it be. 

With that thought halting the cantering of his thoughts, he closed his eyes, the rhythmic tapping of rain upon the windows lulling him to sleep.

* * *

A soft knock pulled Zevran from a restless slumber, though as he squinted against the early morning light, he couldn’t quite recall what had made it so. The wisps of his dreams slipped from his grasp, leaving him in a perturbed haze while he watched the rolling blanket of silver clouds through the window. He hadn’t expected Kirkwall to be such a dreary place, but it was hardly surprising. The city’s reputation preceded it, and the darkness with which it was painted in the stories he had heard now made sense.

“Zevran?” Gwyneth said from outside the room, followed by the gentle rapping of her knuckles.

He drew his fingers back through his hair, loosening the tangles as best he could. “Come in.” 

The door creaked open and Gwyneth entered dressed in pale yellow finery, her hair pinned back into a dark cloud at the back of her head. There was a soft shine to her lips, painted a deep brown only just darker than her skin, and a subtle hint of gold powder shimmered behind her long lashes.

“We’ll be having breakfast soon,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. “I’ve told Mother you’ll be joining us.”

“I’ll be down shortly. What should I do with my clothes?”

“You can just leave them on the chair; Bodahn will take them to the laundry while we’re eating. I’ll see you downstairs.” As she went to leave, she paused, looking at him over her shoulder. “I should warn you my mother knows why you’re here, and that you know Arais. I may have also told her how you and Arais met.” Her features twisted into a slight grimace. “She’s going to have . . . questions.”

He stared at her, brow furrowed. “Should I be concerned?”

“If I were in your place, I would be terrified.”

With that, she crossed the threshold, closing the door behind her.

Zevran sat in silence for a time, the warning leaving him with a slight feeling of trepidation. He didn’t doubt Gwyneth’s words, but he wondered if she might have been exaggerating to toy with him. Though, having had the time to get to know her the night before, he had a hard time believing that was the case.

He took his time getting dressed, his nerves getting the better of him. It was silly to be so frightened of a woman he had never met before, but that was precisely what made the warning so ominous. Leandra was an unknown, and anything was possible.

There was another knock at the door as he was pulling on his boots, and he called for the visitor to enter. 

Bodahn stepped into the room, a pleasant smile stretched across his lips. “I apologize for disturbing you, Zevran, but Lady Hawke asked me to collect your laundry,” he said.

“You’re hardly disturbing me,” Zevran replied with a chuckled. “I was just about to head downstairs. Where are the ladies of the house?”

“You’ll want to head through the door by the fireplace, and the door on your left will bring you to the dining room.” He continued to smile, a genial glow in his eyes. “It truly is good to see you again. When you return to Ferelden, please offer my congratulations to Arais. I heard she was married recently.”

“Indeed she was.” Zevran gave a warm smile. “I will pass them along to her. She will be glad to know you and Sandal are safe.”

Zevran bowed his head and left the room, retracing the route he and Gwyneth had taken the night before. Gray light filtered through the windows and dulled the colors of the mansion, casting an eerie glow over the foyer as he stepped out of the alcove where the portrait of Arais’ parents hung.

A heavy gloom seemed to cling to every surface, and made even the shadows seem darker and more desolate. It was as if the despair which oozed from the Gallows stained all of Kirkwall in a way, and he wouldn’t be surprised if it remained even when the sun shone high in the afternoon sky.

The door into the hall was propped open, and as he passed through, he could hear voices drifting from the dining room. He recognized Gwyneth straight away, but there were two others he was sure he had never heard before. One was a woman with a clear Fereldan accent, though it was touched with just a hint of southern Marcher. The other was a man, his voice thick with the brogue of a northern Marcher - Tantervale, perhaps, or even Starkhaven.

The voices hushed as he entered the dining room. Gwyneth, who sat facing away from him, turned to look over her shoulder when her companions fell silent, which made it incredibly easy to identify the other woman as her mother. The man, however, was a complete mystery to him. Brilliant blue eyes met Zevran’s, the bronze skin of the man’s forehead creased with curiosity. 

Gwyneth turned back to the others. “Mother, this is the man I was telling you about.”

“A pleasure,” he said with a slight bow. Leandra only stared - eyes severe - and his stomach twisted into knots.

Clearly this was going to go well.

Silence stretched on for an agonizing moment before the man cleared his throat. “Allow me to introduce myself.” He offered a hesitant bow. “Sebastian Vael.”

“Zevran Arainai,” he replied, returning the gesture. “I apologize for interrupting.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Sebastian said, his lips lifting into a half smile. “I should be returning to the Chantry for the morning service.” He bent low to the women. “Lady Amell, Lady Hawke.”

He offered a sympathetic look as he passed Zevran, which only served to solidify just how unfortunate a situation he had willingly walked into.

May the Maker have mercy on him.

He remained just inside the room, an awkward silence having fallen between them following Sebastian’s departure. Leandra’s venomous gaze was still trained steadily upon him, and he caught a glimpse of Gwyneth turning to glance at him once more. Her eyes conveyed an apology she could not verbalize at present, and he gave a subtle shrug; she had warned him, which was all she could do.

“Sit,” Leandra said, her voice firm.

Zevran took a seat across from Leandra at the small table, and her eyes never strayed from him as she returned to her quiet glaring. The longer she stared, the more unsettled he became. It was ridiculous to be so intimidated by a woman who appeared so utterly harmless, yet decades of his life with the Crows had taught him the most innocent person was also capable of being the most deadly.

“I’m not quite sure why my daughter thought it wise to allow you to stay in our home,” she began, her voice tight, “but seeing as we were not killed while we slept, I suppose she wasn’t entirely wrong about you. I do have some questions of my own, however.”

“Mother, I’ve already told you everything he told me last night.” Gwyneth pursed her lips. “Is this really necessary?”

“Am I not allowed to have questions?” Leandra asked, her stern gaze turned on her daughter.

“Of course you are”--she narrowed her eyes--“but it would be nice if you could trust my judgment for once.”

“I do, sweetheart, but he is a complete stranger to us, and likely a very skilled liar given his . . . profession.”

“And, if you knew me half as well as you  _ think _ you do,” Gwyneth said, smirking, “you would know I’m equally as skilled at detecting bullshit.”

“ _ Gwyneth _ ,” Leandra scolded, though her lips quirked upward in a near smile.

Gwyneth’s smirk disappeared, and she sighed. “If you would have just waited to speak to Isabela, like I asked, she would have told you exactly what I did.”

“It’s all right,” Zevran interjected, and looked to Leandra. “I will answer any questions you have for me.”

“Indeed?” Leandra said, brow raised in surprise. “Very well, then.”

“Let the inquisition begin,” Gwyneth sighed. She leaned back in her chair, glancing over at Zevran. “If this goes to shit, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Maker’s breath, Gwyneth.” Leandra released an exasperated sigh as she stared at her daughter. “I swear, you are every bit your father’s daughter.”

“Someone needs to balance your cynicism, Mother,” Gwyneth said with a shrug. “You’ve never been very good at doing it yourself.”

“So Malcolm told me every chance he got.” Leandra shook her head, and suddenly her eyes were back on Zevran. “As I said, I do trust my daughter’s judgment; she is not careless, and wouldn’t have put us in danger.”

Gwyneth snorted, but looked away when Leandra’s eyes snapped to her.

“It is a rather incredible coincidence you are acquainted with Arais, and I’m sure you understand why I’m skeptical.” She folded her hands on the table in front of her, her eyes steady on his. “Especially given the circumstances under which the two of you met.”

“Of course I understand,” he said. “I’d be surprised if you were not.”

She smiled a bit at that. “Why  _ were _ you hired to kill her and this other Warden?”

“I’ve never been one to question the motivations of those who hire me, but if I were to hazard a guess . . .” He paused, pressing his lips together as he considered what he knew. “It seemed Teyrn Loghain believed the Wardens could not be trusted.”

Leandra nodded. “Ferelden did have trouble with the Wardens in the past.”

“Indeed,” Zevran said. “I witnessed as much first hand. Arais helped a distant relative of Sophia Dryden reclaim the Warden base at Soldier’s Peak, and we were told the circumstances of the Wardens’ banishment from a rather . . . unlikely source.”

He winced at the sudden image of the late Warden Commander’s ghastly appearance, and the seductive voice of the demon within her still rang clear in his mind. 

“It was unfair of Loghain to suspect the Wardens of today for the actions of past Wardens, but from what I learned was done at the keep, it was understandable.”

“I was speaking of more recent events, but yes,” Leandra replied, her brows twitching upward in surprise. She might have been curious, but she didn’t voice it. “King Maric allowed the Wardens to return to Ferelden barely a decade after the Occupation ended, and Loghain was notoriously vocal about his disapproval. No one truly knows why, but there had been rumors of trouble at Kinloch Hold just before the decision was made.”

“Arais never mentioned anything.” Zevran sat back in his chair, a bit more relaxed. “Loghain insisted the Wardens were unnecessary to defeat the Blight. If I’m to be honest, however, Arl Howe seemed far more interested in my services than Loghain. He simply needed Loghain’s approval.

“In the end, though, Howe died by Arais’ hand, and Loghain became a Warden himself. Ironic, no?”

“I suppose it is.” Leandra chuckled. “From what I understand, the Antivan Crows are among the most skilled assassins in all of Thedas. How is it you were bested by two lone Wardens?”

He let her question settle in his mind, an unexpected reminder of why he had chosen to take the job in the first place, and how he had never intended to be successful. He kept his expression impassive through the memory of Rinna’s face as the life drained from her eyes, and the laughter from his leaders as they mocked him. 

He offered a subtle shrug. “She had the advantage of magic, as did one of her companions. And then there was the Qunari . . . Suffice it to say where I had the numbers, she had the skills. My team was no match for hers.”

“And she allowed you to live simply for the sake of compassion?” Leandra asked, doubt plain in the furrow of her brow.

“I know it is hard to believe,” he said, his eyes stern as he stared at her, “but compassion is what drives Arais’ decisions more often than not.” 

“That she left Teyrn Loghain alive after what he did is proof enough of that, as well, I suppose.” Leandra was silent for a moment. Her expression was contemplative as her eyes drifted down toward the table, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “It seems she takes after her mother; Revka was entirely incapable of cruelty, even when it might have been warranted.”

“Arais is very much the same.” He folded his hands over his stomach. “She is unlike anyone I have ever met. The only person who I can say even comes close is her husband.”

Leandra’s eyes went wide. “Her husband?”

“That would be Teagan Guerrin,” Gwyneth said, shooting a meaningful look at Zevran as she leaned her elbows on the table. “He’s the Arl of Redcliffe now, apparently.”

“What happened to Arl Eamon?” Leandra asked.

“He was poisoned during the Blight,” Zevran answered, and both women stared at him, mouths slightly agape. “He survived, however the poison must have weakened him significantly. He stepped down shortly after he and Lady Isolde separated.”

“ _ Separated _ ?” Leandra looked scandalized. “I’ve never heard of a noble couple in Ferelden divorcing before. What happened?”

“Isolde hid their son’s magic from him, and his tutor was the one who poisoned Eamon.” Zevran folded his arms across his chest. “Arais saved Eamon and Connor, but it’s probably for the best she wasn’t willing or able to save the marriage. Eamon never struck me as a particularly kind man.”

Silence fell between them again, Leandra seemingly lost in thought. Her eyes were unfocused as they settled somewhere just over Zevran’s shoulder, her lips pressed into a thin line. She fidgeted with the edge of her napkin, her fingers twisting and straightening the simple white cotton.

“Is Arais happy?” she asked. 

Zevran nearly recoiled at the echo of Alistair’s words, and he took a moment to compose himself before he answered. “I’ve never seen her as happy as she is with Teagan.”

“And he treats her well?” 

“Of course,” Zevran said, almost defensively. “After what happened with Alistair, I would never have allowed anyone with ill intentions anywhere near her heart. Teagan is a good man, far better than his brother, and I have no doubt he will give her a life as wonderful as she deserves.”

“That is good to hear,” Leandra said. “I only wish Revka was here to see the incredible woman her daughter has become.” She sighed, her lips turned up in a sad smile. “Thank you, Zevran. I’m sure my daughter made this seem as if it would all be very dramatic-”

“I did no such thing,” Gwyneth said with a smirk. “I was  _ sure _ you would be more dramatic. Color me pleasantly surprised.”

“ _ Regardless _ ,” Leandra continued, casting a sidelong glance at her daughter, “that was truly all I wished to know. I appreciate your honesty.”

He spread his hands, palms raised toward the ceiling. “I have no reason to be deceitful, Lady Amell. My life was forfeit when I failed to kill my mark, and I owe my ability to even be here to Arais.”

“So my daughter has told me.” Leandra watched him for a moment. “What do you plan to do now that you’ve done what you came to do? Will you be returning to Ferelden?”

He shook his head. “Not quite yet. There is something else I need to take care of.”

“What is that?” Gwyneth asked.

He hesitated, biting the inside of his lip as he glanced over at her. They may believe he held no ulterior motives now, but he could not fault them for any suspicion they might regain from learning of his intention to return to Antiva, especially with Isabela no longer here to vouch for him.

Gwyneth sat up in her chair, frowning. “Zevran?”

“Oh,  _ bury _ it,” he muttered, and took a deep breath. “I have personal business in Antiva.” Both women remained silent, and he felt more than saw two sets of eyes darken as they gazed upon him. “I understand your concern. Truly, I do,” he continued, “but the Crows are not my only tie to my homeland.”

“What else is there, then?” Leandra asked, her voice chilling his bones. “Or was there a reason to be deceitful you happened to have forgot?”

“That . . . isn’t it at all, My Lady.” He rested his arms on the table and released a heavy sigh. “I am as good as dead, as far as the Crows are concerned. I’ve not only failed, I’ve had a hand in killing my former brethren.” Anxiety clawed at his chest as he ran a hand back through his hair. “But I know how they work, and I am no longer who they will come for first. They will target those for whom I care the most, to make certain I suffer.”

“Oh.” Gwyneth’s mouth fell open with a soft gasp. “Arais?”

“Eventually, I’m sure,” he said. He received a baffled look from Leandra, but he brushed it off. “She is a far more difficult mark than they’d be willing to take on at present. She is no longer a mere Warden, after all.”

“Then who?” Gwyneth asked, her expression now as puzzled as her mother’s.

“I . . . have a family, of sorts. I was foolish enough to continue visiting the alienage after I was bought and trained by the Crows, and of course they found out.” His hands balled into fists. “I suppose I should be grateful they were not harmed immediately, but now I can’t even be sure they’re still alive.”

“Did you not keep in contact with them?” Leandra asked, her confusion laced with skepticism.

“I couldn’t. Not without further risk to them.” His gaze was steady as it held hers. “I cut ties many years ago in hopes the Crows would let them be, and recently I learned it worked, to some extent. Their daughter is an apprentice at Kinloch Hold, and she had been in contact with her family since Arais granted the mages the right to communicate with their families.”

Leandra’s expression softened somewhat. “I suppose you found her during the Blight?”

“I hadn’t, actually. I was not even aware she was in Ferelden until I saw her at Arais’ wedding, when she accompanied Teagan’s nephew.” He pursed his lips. “I know she is safe there, for the time being. The templars - monstrous as they can be - are more vigilant than ever, and infiltrating a spire in the middle of a lake is no easy feat. Her family is the easiest target.”

“Do you need help finding a ship to get you there?” Gwyneth asked.

“I shouldn’t have any trouble finding one myself.” He glanced out the window to the overcast skies, from which a heavy rain had begun to fall. “I do worry the weather will not permit me to leave just yet, however.”

“We’ll figure it out,” she replied. “Right, Mother?”

“Of course.” Leandra reached across the table to place a hand on his. “Until then, you are free to stay here as long as you need.”

“I-” He stared at her for a moment, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a hesitant half smile. “Thank you, Lady Amell.”

“Leandra, please.” Her fingers squeezed his gently and she smirked. “I haven’t been Lady Amell in a very long time; the title is only a consequence of reclaiming my old home.”

“As you wish,” he said with a soft chuckle.

Leandra pulled her hand away and rose to her feet. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have something I must take care of.” She offered a subtle nod of her head before she left the dining room, her footsteps fading into the foyer.

“You survived; congratulations!” Gwyneth cheered before she dissolved into a fit of laughter. She forced a few quick breaths before she was able to compose herself, her lips still set in a grin. “I’m sorry for making you believe you were about to be decimated by my mother; I really did think she would be angrier than she was.”

He shrugged. “I would have been able to handle myself, had she been.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” She shook her head. “I am glad she seems to have taken a liking to you; my mother is a force to be reckoned with when she’s angry.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” he laughed. “Your friend . . . Sebastian, was it? He seemed to believe I would face a fate similar to the image you had left in my head.”

“Sebastian is more an acquaintance of my mother’s,” she said. “She knew his family when he was a child. He’s one of the princes of Starkhaven, or was, I suppose; the Vaels are no longer in power.” Her lips twisted into a frown, but she didn’t expound further. “I’m sure you want to avoid the Hanged Man, so I’ll go talk to Isabela and see if she knows anyone who plans to sail to Antiva within the week when the rain lets up.”

“I can travel with you to Lowtown, at the very least,” he responded. “That is where the alienage is located, yes?”

She nodded. “A friend of mine lives there. It isn’t the nicest place, but she doesn’t complain.” Her shoulders sagged. “Merrill is entirely too dismissive of how awful it is there. I wish she would have agreed to stay here, but she wanted her independence.”

“No alienage I’ve come across is particularly palatable.” He wrinkled his nose, a wave of irritation washing over him. “I helped rebuild the Denerim alienage after the Blight left it in ruins; they were hardly a priority when construction began.” He folded his hands in front of him, tilting his head at her. “If you would like, I can put you in contact with the people I hired. They can make the homes more habitable.”

Her forehead wrinkled just a bit before concern glimmered in her dark eyes. “Won’t it be expensive?” 

“Many of them are friends of Arais’ from the Blight. If they know you’re her family, they’ll likely charge you next to nothing. If money is truly a concern, I’ll gladly help. I was already planning on doing something about it.”

“I see,” she said softly. “Then yes, I would appreciate the help. Though I don’t want to do something the elves would rather I not be involved in.”

“Which is why I want to visit the alienage myself. I’ll speak to the Hahren and see what he would prefer; at the very least you will simply be the leverage to lower the cost.” His lips quirked into a brief smile. “Don’t be too concerned with the finer details. I will take care of everything.”

She whispered a relieved sigh. “Thank you, Zevran.” She was silent for a time, her eyes distant. “What will you do when you find your . . . family?”

“I’m not wholly sure. I don’t believe they’ll be safe, no matter where I bring them, but I can’t leave them in Antiva.” He sighed, picking at a hangnail as he looked down at his hands. “Ferelden seems the logical choice, since they will be near enough to keep a watchful eye on them.”

“But you worry having them so close will make them easier to find,” she added for him, and he met her gaze with a nod. A thoughtful look flickered in her eyes. “Why not bring them to Kirkwall? You have no obvious connections here, and I doubt even the Crows will easily tie my family to Arais. Only my mother maintains the Amell name; as far as the city is concerned, this estate belongs to the Hawkes.”

“You make a fair point,” he answered, “though there are circumstances which make Kirkwall . . . less than ideal.” She tilted her head at him, and he sighed. “Dimitrio - Vitalia’s father - was a First among his Dalish clan.”

“A mage?” It was his turn to cast a confused look, and she shrugged. “Merrill was her clan’s First before she left them to come to Kirkwall.”

“Odd that she left her clan for a city such as this,” he said, noting the conflicted glimmer in her eyes. “How is it she manages to avoid the templars’ notice?”

“Mostly Varric pays off anyone who finds out, but she has learned to disguise her magic and go relatively unnoticed in the city.” She leaned back in her chair. “I’ll talk to Varric, see if he would be willing to use his connections to protect Dimitrio, as well. Assuming you choose to bring them here, at any rate.”

“If you believe your friend will truly be willing to help them . . .” He trailed off, offering a grateful smile. “Yes, I think bringing them here may be the best option.”

A comfortable quiet settled between them, and he stared at the now chilled food laid out on the table. He wasn’t entirely surprised to find he had no appetite, but it did nothing to ease a mild pang of frustration. That he was still so affected by everything happening was bothersome, and he longed for the days when he could effectively compartmentalize to focus on what needed to be done.

“I should prepare for the day ahead. Should the weather clear up, I’ll find you and we can travel to Lowtown.” She stood and smiled at him. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

She sauntered from the room, and as he watched her go, he pondered the short time they had spent together. Her wariness had been a severe sort, and the way she carried herself during those conversations seemed nothing short of intimidating. Once he had broken through her initial distrust, though, he found the depth of her compassion not unlike Arais’. More than once she had reminded him of Arais, but she was still so very different. She was less open with her feelings, and it almost felt as if she actively tried to suppress them.

There were indeed similarities, but the differences vastly outweighed them.

He took one last look at the food he hadn’t touched before he sighed and pushed himself out of his chair, leaving the kitchen for the guest quarters. He was exhausted from sleeping so poorly, and he needed to rest. The knot of anxiety in his gut only tightened as he realized he would not be able to leave Kirkwall as quickly as he had hoped. Of course there would be time to make plans later, but at least he would be able to do some good in the alienage before he departed for Antiva.

The rain tapped rapidly at the windows of the guest room as he entered, and he found the sound drained him of what little energy he had maintained during breakfast. With a drawn out yawn, he laid back on the bed and closed his eyes, allowing the darkness to claim him.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**_7 Firstfall, 9:32 Dragon_ **

A voice called out from across the hazy landscape, and Arais’ body went rigid. She hadn’t suffered a nightmare in months, and yet here she was, faced with the first sign her dream was no longer her own. It always started with one voice which was followed by dozens, until thousands of incoherent growls surrounded her in a cacophony which left her paralyzed and weeping on the ground.

She stood still as a statue, her eyes shut tight against the trepidation seizing her heart. She waited for endless moments, but when the voice called out once, then twice more without the echo of countless others in unison, she slowly opened her eyes.

At first she remained still - afraid the nightmare had simply changed - as she searched her immediate surroundings with only her eyes. The rolling sepia hills were only disturbed by a single cluster of aquamarine stalagmites. A soft mist of lyrium swirled around the protrusions and disappeared into the faint fog crawling across the ground.

She had only just started to move her head when the voice called out again, unintelligible, so near behind her she leapt forward before she turned. In front of her was . . . well, she couldn’t be sure; its features were obscured by dark shadows, almost obsidian in their opacity. It reached out, and the shadows seemed to ooze like tar from what could barely be recognized as an arm.

Arais stumbled backward as the being began to move toward her. In her haste to avoid it, she tripped over her own ankle and fell to the ground with a heavy thud. It hesitated and lowered its arm, the appendage reabsorbed into the mass of shadow. Arais watched it, her heart in her throat. She shook with the panic squeezing her lungs as the being floated - unmoving - barely more than an arm’s length away.

Then it lowered itself to the ground and took an unsteady step toward her, and she screamed. She brought her arms up to shield herself, forehead pressed into her arm as tears rolled down her cheeks. A hand wrapped around her arm, and she lashed out with her elbow, connecting with something hard.

The hand held firm, and she sobbed as she struggled against its grip. She kicked out, eyes shut tight against whatever horror had taken hold of her. Her feet tangled in something smooth, and she screamed again as her stomach churned and bile rose in her throat.

“Arais,” a new voice said.

“Leave me alone!” she yelled.

She twisted and struck out blindly with an open hand, and her palm stung where it made contact with a solid mass. Another hand grabbed at her wrist as she was ready to lash out again, and she choked out a sob as she pulled weakly against the tight hold on her arms.

“Let me go,” she sobbed. Their grip didn’t loosen, and she whimpered, “Please. Please, just let me go.”

“Arais!” they cried, desperate. “Arais, please. Open your eyes. Look at me.”

This time the voice sounded more familiar, and she froze. She cautiously opened her eyes, but darkness obscured her vision and all she could see was a silhouette. Just as she started to struggle again, the hands left her arms.

She scrambled away from the silhouette, the surface beneath her far less firm than the ground she had been on just moments ago. She felt around her surroundings, and fear gave way to confusion when she found soft cotton rather than rough stone beneath her fingertips.

The chill in the air brushed across her skin, slick with sweat, and she crossed her arms over her chest to ward off the cold. Her eyes finally began to adjust to the darkness, and she looked up to the silhouette. They remained where she had left them, and the moonlight shining through the single, arched window illuminated a halo of tangled red curls.

“Teagan?”

His shoulders slumped with the rush of air from his lips. “Yes. Yes, it’s me.”

“Oh,” she breathed, crawling over to kneel in front of him, touching a finger to his cheek. “Oh, Maker, I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“It was nothing I couldn’t handle, my love.” He pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her middle. “Are _you_ all right? You haven’t had a nightmare like that in months.”

She shook her head. “I’ve _never_ had a nightmare like this one.”

“What happened?” he asked, his chin resting atop her head.

“I’m . . . not sure,” she said. “There was a voice I couldn’t understand, and a spirit unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. I can’t even be sure it was a spirit at all.”

“Perhaps Wynne will know something?”

“Maybe,” she said, leaning into his chest. “I’ll send off a letter in the morning.”

He hummed in acknowledgement. “Are you ready to go back to sleep, or do you want to stay up and read for a while?”

Curling in his lap, she looked up at him. “I think I’ll read for a little while, just until it’s mostly out of my head.” She pursed her lips, glancing away. “Would you mind staying up with me this time?”

“Not at all.” He squeezed her gently. “I’ll stay up as long as you need.”

“Thank you,” she said with a small smile.

She placed a quick kiss on his lips and slipped out of his lap, reaching to light the candles on her bedside table. She took the book beside the flickering lights and sat back into her pillows, giggling a bit when Teagan wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her against him.

“What are you reading tonight?” he asked as she opened the tome to where she had marked her progress.

“Connor mentioned Marianni was teaching him lower level entropy spells in his last letter, so I’ve been reading into them. I was never very good with them myself, and I only know the little Morrigan taught me about it.” She ran a finger along the rough paper. “Entropy magic is darker than the other types. Deadlier. Knowing Marianni, she’s likely teaching Connor about it to ensure he knows it isn’t blood magic when he sees it performed.”

“Why would he think it’s blood magic?”

She nibbled at her bottom lip before she flipped back a few pages, scanning the text until she found what she was looking for. She pointed out one of the basic spells. “This spell binds the caster to their target and heals themselves by draining the life energy from their target. There’s a similar, more powerful spell blood mage’s can use. The only real difference is entropy magic is powered by mana, and blood magic speaks for itself.”

“That seems paradoxical.”

She looked at him, eyebrow raised. “What do you mean?”

“Why would a mage harm themselves further to heal?”

“I didn’t say they harmed themselves,” she clarified. “Blood mages do use their own blood occasionally, but it doesn’t _need_ to be their blood. Remember how Jowan would have powered his ritual, if the mages hadn’t been able to help?”

His eyes went dark as he nodded. “I do.”

“That’s the reality of blood magic.” She turned her gaze back to the pages. “And, despite what those who practice it would want us to believe, no good can come of it. I’ve never met a mage who was not corrupted by it, eventually.”

Teagan’s arm tightened around her, drawing her closer. “Why don’t we go to the study and find a different subject to indulge in before we return to bed?”

“A lighter subject would probably be better,” she agreed. “Did you have anything specific in mind?”

“The tome on creation magic you were reading the other day was particularly interesting.” He kissed the top of her head before he released her. “Though that may have something to do with your mastery of the talent.”

“I’m hardly a master,” she said with a soft laugh, turning to kneel beside him. “Glyphs are still tricky, even with Wynne’s instruction.”

“Tricky, maybe, but not impossible.” He took her hand in his, his thumb brushing across the ring on her finger as he met her eyes. “You forget I’ve watched you train the guards to defend themselves against magic; I believe they would prefer being tackled by Barkspawn to your glyphs.”

She lifted her brows, doubtful. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, and look of exaggerated thoughtfulness on his face before he nodded. “No doubt being flung halfway across the courtyard by a glyph of repulsion is preferable to being knocked over by a one hundred twenty pound mabari.” He quirked a brow at her, smirking. “How silly of me to believe otherwise.”

“Ha, ha,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Fine, I see your point. That still doesn’t mean I’m proficient in casting them _consistently_.”

His lips turned up in a genuine smile. “They are still powerful, nonetheless. I wonder, though . . .”

She tilted her head to the side. “Yes?”

“Is there a counter to a glyph of repulsion?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, confused.

“Is there a spell to draw someone to you,” he started, head tilted to the side, “rather than push them away?”

“Not that I know of,” she replied. “None that function as an exact inverse of repulsion, at any rate.”

“That’s a pity,” he lamented with a dramatic sigh, his gaze falling to their joined hands.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why?”

“I can think of many ways such a spell could be used . . . unconventionally.”

“Oh,” she said, her cheeks suddenly burning. Still, she smirked. “Can you?”

His hand tightened around hers, and she giggled when he pulled her against him to place a slow kiss on her lips. “Indeed,” he mumbled against her mouth, his hands moving to the small of her back. “Though I suppose the traditional means will suffice.”

“I prefer traditional,” she murmured.

She cupped her hands over his cheeks, a shiver running along her spine as she brushed her thumbs across the rough stubble. The tip of his tongue ran across her bottom lip, and she opened herself to him eagerly, relishing the taste of him.

She shifted in his arms to straddle him, exploring deeper within his mouth, feeling the heat of him through the thin satin of her nightgown. His hand wandered from the small of her back, his touch feather light as he trailed his fingers along her sides. She shivered at the sensation, the chill in the air cool against her heated skin.

A soft mewl echoed through the bedchambers, and Arais recognized in her hazy state it did not belong to her. When long, soft fur brushed across her thigh, she realized it had not belonged to any human, but to Catmint, whose purrs radiated from him like rolling thunder. He crawled up onto her lap, chirping as he nuzzled her stomach, and she pulled away from Teagan with a bemused smile.

“He certainly has impeccable timing,” Teagan said.

“Some things never change,” she replied. “I’ve lost count of how often he’s managed to do this since we brought him here.” Catmint offered a contented mewl when Arais scratched him behind the ear, leaning hard into the contact and nearly rolling off her lap. Arais giggled as she stroked along his back. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?”

He pushed his head against her hand and meowed.

“Of course you do; silly of me to ask.” She lifted Catmint from her lap and placed him down on the bed; he mewled in protest even as he padded to the edge and flopped on his side. “Don’t you take that tone with me, Minty.”

His eyes narrowed at her, and all she could do was chuckle.

“I often wonder if he shares a mabari’s intelligence,” Teagan said, drawing her attention back to him. She lifted a brow, and he offered a low shrug. “He responds to you in much the same way Barkspawn does, as if he’s actually having a conversation with you.”

“I suppose he does,” she said, her gaze briefly returning to Catmint, whose half lidded eyes watched them with little interest. “I think he would argue he’s smarter, though.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Teagan chuckled, and his hand came up to rest upon her cheek. “Do you still want to go to the study?”

Arais shook her head, her lips curling into a teasing smile. “I think I’d rather continue your demonstration of those traditional means of attracting someone.”

“I see,” he said, his voice low. Arais giggled as she quickly found herself back in his arms, his breath hot as it brushed across her ear with a whispered, “Allow me to show you, then.”

* * *

**_24 Firstfall, 9:32 Dragon_ **

The sun had risen far past its perch in the east facing window when Arais’ eyes at last fluttered open, her head heavy as it nestled deep in the pillows. Still, she kept her eyes narrowed against the daylight filtering into the bedchamber, before pulling the blankets up to cover her face. A dull ache pulsed at her temples, the gentle, massaging touch of her fingers doing little to alleviate the pain.

She had promised Teagan she would only be a moment before she joined him for breakfast, but it seemed she had slept well into the morning. She peeked out from beneath the sheets and realized it was possible lunch would be served soon, if the shadows cast upon the floor were to be any indication.

Maker, but it had gotten late.

Arais attempted to pull back the sheets, but a low mewl of dissent stopped her short. Catmint stretched out to his full length as he rolled back against her torso, his head coming into view over the edge of the blankets.

“Morning, Minty,” she said, her voice hoarse. She giggled when he reached out a paw to tap her nose. “I’m surprised you’re not out terrorizing the mice in the cellars by now.”

He offered a soft, broken chirp and a slow blink.

“Ah, so you’re awake, at last.”

She turned her head towards the voice which called from the doorway. A tired smile pulled at her lips when she saw Teagan entering the room, steam rising from the mug he cupped in his palms. She started to shift into a sitting position, but paused with a wince when the muscles of her back tensed in protest.

Catmint rolled onto his tummy and cocked his head to the side as he stared at her.

“Is everything all right?” Teagan asked, placing the mug on her nightstand and kneeling beside the bed.

“I think so,” she said, pushing herself up to lean back against the headboard. Catmint huffed at the unceremonious adjustment, and quickly curled into a ball on her lap. “I suppose oversleeping just made me a little stiff, that’s all.”

“You have been sleeping quite a lot, lately.” He reached out to touch the back of his hand to her forehead, a gentle frown on his thin lips. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“Aside from incredibly tired, not really.” She took the mug when he handed it to her, relishing in the aroma of honey and cinnamon before she took a sip. “Though the soreness is new; perhaps the change of weather is finally catching up to me.”

“Should I send for anything?”

“I doubt I’ll need anything we don’t already have,” she said, reaching out to take his hand. “At worst, it’s an early winter fever.” His concern did not seem to wane, and she brushed her thumb across his palm. “If you would feel better, we can call for Wynne, but I promise if I thought something serious was wrong with me, I would tell you.”

“Then I will hold off on sending someone across Lake Calenhad, for now.” He tightened his fingers around her hand briefly before he stood. “Lunch will be ready soon; shall I have it sent to you here?”

She shook her head. “No, that’s all right. I was supposed to meet with Irina this morning to finalize arrangements for when your aunt and cousin arrive, so I should really dress and attend to that.”

“If you’re sure,” he said, and she smiled to reassure him. “I will have lunch served in the study, then.” He leaned down to press a slow, gentle kiss to her lips. “Until then.”

She watched him leave the room, the warmth of the fire hardly the only source of the flush in her cheeks. When the door clicked shut behind him, she sat for a moment, her fingers idly stroking Catmint’s long fur as she gathered the energy to leave the comfort of the bed. She stifled a yawn with her forearm, surprised to find the soreness had yet to wane at all when she stretched out the muscles of her back.

“Okay, Minty, it’s time for me to get up,” she said softly, nudging him until he grudgingly padded to the end of the bed, where he flopped onto his side; she could feel his eyes on her as she carefully swung her legs to the floor. She winced at the new aches she found in her thighs. They were hardly unbearable, but accompanied with the pain in her back and head, it was unusual.

Perhaps she _was_ coming down with a fever.

She was careful and deliberate with her movements as she dressed for the day, acutely aware of every twinge in her muscles if she turned too quickly or bent over. It was only when at last she sat at the vanity - weaving her hair into a loose braid over her shoulder - that it began to ebb, and she studied herself in the mirror, looking for any sign she might be falling ill. Dark circles had begun to form underneath her eyes, which had dulled from their usual vivid silver to a murky gray. Still, her cheeks were flushed and bright with color; there seemed to be no other outward signs that she was sick.

She rose to her feet, only to drop back into the chair as she fought off a wave of vertigo. The room darkened in her periphery, and she blinked rapidly, trying to focus as her vision spun and her stomach churned. It only lasted a moment, but Maker, if it hadn’t felt like much longer; she hadn’t gotten quite so ill all at once in many years.

Slowly, she pushed herself up to stand, her grip firm on the back of her vanity chair. The dizziness did not return, though her muscles ached with the renewed intensity. She had trekked many miles across Ferelden to feel as sore and worn down as she did at that moment. As her lips stretched wide around another yawn, she decided it best to check her stores for a remedy for the muscle aches; if this was a winter fever, there was no sense waiting for it to fully develop.

There was a soft thud behind her as she left the room, and she soon found Catmint trotting along beside her, his head and tail held high. He looked at her and chirped softly before turning his gaze back to the hall ahead of them.

“You’re acting very odd, Minty,” she said.

He continued to walk beside her, showing no sign he had understood her.

She shook her head and kept walking. She tried to occupy her mind by making a mental note of what she had last found in her stores when she had inventoried them, but with every step the pain ebbed only slightly. The study was a short walk from the bedchambers, yet it felt like she was hiking the Frostbacks again, for how much effort she exerted.

It was with a heavy sigh of relief that she entered the study, and while she crossed to the table set for lunch, Catmint wandered to the hearth and laid out in front of the fire. It was all she could do to not make a show of how much she hurt as she took her seat across from Teagan. Despite her efforts, he caught the subtle twitch of her lips when just a slight shift in her seat sent a dull ache radiating from her lower back, and his brows knit together with concern.

“It’s fine,” she said, before he could speak. “I’ll have Valena prepare one of the remedies I used in the Circle for fever aches and return to bed after lunch. Are you okay with handling the last of the arrangements for when Thalia and Cador arrive?”

“Of course.” He reached across the table to lay his hand over hers. “Is there anything else you need?”

“It’s okay. I’ll be better in no time.”

He nodded, releasing her hand only when servants arrived to deliver their meal.

The aroma of the fried meat and eggs did little to excite her, and Arais had taken only a few bites before her already scarce appetite disappeared entirely. She nudged cut pieces of meat back and forth across her plate, willing herself to be hungry, but no amount of coercion seemed to help.

She bit her cheek, her chest tight. It had been more than half a day since her last meal; to have such a minimal appetite was unusual for her, particularly since the Joining. No illness had been able to diminish her hunger during the Blight, not even when she had been bedridden after the siege.

With a gentle shake of her head, she took a pear from the bowl of fruit at the center of the table and cut a slice. Appetite be damned, she needed to eat. She took small, tentative bites, and it was with no small amount of effort that she ignored the resistance from her stomach when she swallowed.

There was a soft knock, and Arais turned to see Valena crossing into the room. “Excuse me, My Lord. My Lady.” She lowered her head in a brief bow. “Is there anything you need?”

Arais nodded. “Could you have the kitchens prepare a tea of the ingredients I have listed for muscle aches?”

“Of course, My Lady.” Valena paused, her eyes thoughtful. “Would you like me to draw a bath? There are salts I use to ease my father’s rheumatism in your stores, as well. It may help.”

“That . . . would be wonderful, yes,” Arais said, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. “Thank you, Valena.”

A subtle glow burned on Valena’s cheeks. “You’re welcome, My Lady.” She lowered her head to them. “Excuse me.”

She left the room with hurried steps, and Arais couldn’t be sure if Valena was embarrassed or if she wanted to be quick about it. It was always hard to tell with her, but what stood out was when Valena mentioned Owen. Arais knew he no longer indulged in spirits, and it had been heartening to see him among those rebuilding the village when the darkspawn had retreated. He had become an invaluable asset not only as blacksmith to the militia, but for the Redcliffe Guard, as well.

Still, it was rare for Valena to speak beyond formalities, let alone mention her father. The only time Arais saw her truly sociable in the castle was during shared chores with Kaitlyn, where they would laugh and tease one another. They seemed dear to one another, and Arais wondered if it they had always been close.

“Arais?” She turned back to Teagan, who appeared to have been trying to get her attention for some time. His eyes were warm as he smiled. “Lost in thought?”

“I suppose I was.” She pressed her hand to her lips, smothering a yawn. “Perhaps I should return to our bedchambers until Valena has everything prepared.”

He stood and rounded the table, holding his hand out to her. “Shall we?”

Even now, her cheeks flushed as she took his hand. “Lead the way.”

* * *

A weight settled heavily in Arais’ gut when she found herself in the murkiness of the Fade. Her back went rigid, and her eyes darted over the dusty landscape in search of the being she encountered in her last nightmare. The Fade seemed darker somehow, more devoid of color than was usual, and it gnawed at her with the ferocity of a rabid wolf. She glanced between clusters of lyrium, the only things seemingly unchanged by whatever was affecting the environment, and her heart nearly stuttered to a full stop when a wave of shadow rolled between the individual nodes of one nearby.

Tendrils of darkness twisted around the stalagmites, absorbing the light as they pulled the being forward, even as it took slow, deliberate steps. It was still some distance away from her, but even with its sluggish pace, the being was no doubt taking a direct path to her.

Terror cold as the Frostbacks’ peaks seized Arais’ lungs and left her too breathless to whimper, much less scream. Tears, hot and silent, began a steady descent down her cheeks as she found herself rooted in place, unable to turn and run, no matter how deeply she wished she could. She forced a deep, shaky breath, and it shuttered on exhale with a violent sob.

Maker, but this was no less terrifying than the nightmares which haunted her during the Blight.

She squeezed her eyes shut, hands clenched into fists as she willed herself to calm. Even on her worst nights, she had been able to fight off the visions of carnage and annihilation the archdemon forced upon her. A spirit whose purpose she did not understand would not be her undoing.

Her eyes opened slowly, and she found the being much closer than before, approaching arm’s length. She clenched her jaw, biting back a surprised yelp. “I don’t know what you are,” she began, finding it difficult to keep her voice even, “but if you mean me no harm, stay _back_.” Her heart caught in her throat on the last word, causing her voice to crack, and she winced despite herself.

Nevertheless, the being froze in place. Shadows drifted like fog to the ground, billowing out in thick tufts from where feet should have stood. Arais shook with adrenaline, and her stomach churned as long moments stretched on endlessly while she watched it in its stillness.

“What _are_ you?” she asked, more to herself than anything, curiosity beginning to get the better of her. “I’ve never seen anything like you before.”

It did nothing but float in place.

Arais continued to stare at it, making no move herself. “Is there any way you can answer my questions?”

For a long moment, nothing happened. The being simply floated, the viscous darkness of its form swirling around and between the lyrium node beside which it remained. Then, with a sudden, violent burst of energy, it lowered itself to the ground and impaled a shrouded hand upon a stalagmite. Arais let out a shriek and turned away at the bright burst of light from the lyrium, her heart beating an irregular rhythm in her throat.

She returned her gaze to the being, and found it hunched over, an opaque mass beside the node. It made no movement, and for a moment Arais thought it might have hurt itself too deeply to respond. Soon, however, it shifted, and she saw a faded blue glow by its palm, where the stalagmite had penetrated the shadows.

The being straightened until it stood tall, its movement staggered.

Against her better judgment, Arais’ chest tightened with concern. “Are you hurt?”

The hand with broken shadows stretched out - palm forward - and flashed a brilliant white from the hole at the center.

“I suppose that’s a yes, at least; that didn’t strike me as pleasant,” she said. “You didn’t have to hurt yourself for my sake.” She paused, and pondered for a moment. “Have you always been as you are? Shrouded in darkness, I mean.” No response came, no flash of light. “Do the shadows . . . do they hurt at all?”

A dimmer flash of light, perhaps meaning they did not hurt quite as much as what it had just done to itself? Arais couldn’t be sure.

“I assume you are a spirit.” Arais tilted her head to the side. “Are you benevolent?”

A brighter flash, this time.

“Why are you here, though? What can I do?”

It made no move to respond, merely sagged in place. Arais bit her lip; their communication was obviously limited to “yes” or “no”, and she found herself feeling guilty for overlooking that.

“Were you born in the Fade?”

Nothing.

“So you were once alive?”

The spirit perked up, the light in its palm gleaming again.

“Did . . . did we know one another, when you were alive?”

Arais had to squint against the luminescence of its response. When the light cleared, it seemed the darkness had ebbed further from the hole the spirit had created, nearly revealing the whole of its hand.

That didn’t help to identify who the spirit could be, however. She had known many people who passed on, and of course the spirits of the departed would find their way to mages in the Fade. This was not Arais’ first communication with a spirit, but its state was so bizarre, something she had yet to see before, and she wasn’t sure how it could have happened.

Before she could ask another question, before she could even begin to learn who this spirit could have been, she felt a gentle touch on her cheek, drawing her from the Fade. The spirit made no move to follow her as she drifted away from it, and the last Arais saw of it before she was brought back to consciousness was the light in its hand slowly fading to a dull blue-gray.

“Arais?”

Her eyes fluttered open, finding Teagan sat beside her on the bed, his hand cupping her cheek.

“How long was I asleep?” she asked, glancing at her surroundings. Catmint was curled up against Teagan’s pillows, the steady rise and fall of his chest accompanied by soft, rhythmic purrs.

“Not very long,” Teagan replied. “Valena came to bring your tea and found you asleep. She didn’t wish to wake you, so she is drawing your bath as we speak.”

She frowned. “The tea must be cold by now.”

“Not at all.” He stood and walked to the fireplace, where a kettle hung from a hook above a low burning fire. He used a thick cloth to handle the kettle and poured the tea into a mug which had been set on the mantle.

She pushed herself up to sit against the pillows - wincing at the renewed pain in her back - as he brought the tea to her. “Thank you,” she said as she took it, allowing the cup to warm her hands as she blew across the surface of the hot liquid. She took a small sip, the bitterness of the herbs diluted by what tasted like a splash of honey.

Teagan settled beside her on the bed. “You were mumbling in your sleep,” he said with a frown. “Was it another nightmare?”

“Not a nightmare, no,” she said, brows knitting together in thought. “It was in the Fade, like last time, but . . . whatever I encountered, it doesn’t appear to be hostile.”

“And you still don’t know what it could be?”

“It’s . . . it’s a spirit, or so it implied.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Implied?”

“It can’t speak, but it found another means of communication.” Her back tightened with a shiver as she remembered the violence of its means. “It was by no means pleasant to witness, but it wasn’t nearly as terrifying as the last time.” She took a sip of her tea and sighed over the rim of her mug. “I’m certain this won’t be the last time I see this spirit, but I can’t imagine what it wants from me. It claims to be benevolent, but I would be foolish to trust it so soon.”

A thought occurred to Arais. “Have you spoken with Irina, yet?”

“Yes. Everything appears to be in order. The guest rooms are prepared, and meal plans have been confirmed for the length of their visit.” Teagan looked to the fire, his gaze more pensive than the topic would warrant. “Assuming the weather holds well, everything will be ready when they arrive within the fortnight.”

She took another sip of her tea, carefully considering her next words. “And did Irina receive any word from Eamon of his plans?”

Teagan’s face fell, and he shook his head. “None, I’m afraid. At least not yet.” He brought his hands together on his lap, wringing them together absently. “It has been decades since we last saw our aunt. I understand Percival’s absence will be difficult, but I had assumed . . . well, I was always closer with everyone than he had been, I suppose. But there is still time; I can’t imagine Eamon wouldn’t want to see them.”

“Of course, my heart,” she said, careful not to let her true feelings show.

Eamon had not even had the decency to reject the invitation to the wedding outright; he simply hadn’t shown up. She was convinced he would likely do the same here. Even so, he was her brother-in-law, and meant a great deal to Teagan; it was only for her husband’s sake that she hoped Eamon would come around.

As she sipped at her tea, a soft voice called, “My Lady, your bath is ready.” Valena stood in the doorway to the washroom, hands folded in front of her, and glanced at the mug Arais cupped in her palms. “Is the tea to your liking?”

Arais nodded. “The honey was a nice touch,” she said, offering her a warm smile.

“Thank you, My Lady.” Valena’s cheeks flushed a soft pink. “I am familiar with the herbs listed, and remember them being very bitter.” She made to continue, but her lips pursed together in a tight line, as if she thought better of her next words. She shook her head - so subtly Arais hardly noticed - and her eyes fell to the floor. "I apologize for not asking you first.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Arais said. “I appreciate the thought.” She placed her mug on the nightstand and stretched, pleased to notice the pain had ebbed some. “Thank you, Valena.”

“Of course.”

She offered a brief curtsy before she retreated, far less quickly than earlier. Arais didn’t dwell, too grateful for the reprieve from the soreness from which she had been suffering to focus on much else. A dull throb persisted at the base of her skull, but it hardly warranted complaint.

“Are you feeling better?” Teagan asked, his gaze steady upon her face. “Your color is improved from earlier.”

“The pain has subsided, for the most part,” she said. “My neck is still a little sore, but it’s nothing the bath won’t help.” She took his hand, caressing his knuckles with the pad of her thumb. “What are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?”

“There are requisitions from surrounding arlings still recovering from the Blight I should attend to; repairs overlooked during the initial reconstruction, mainly, though Irina is sorting through them for requests that require immediate aide.” He stared at their joined hands, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I would hardly consider Redcliffe Village lucky, but we still fared far better than those closer to Ostagar. I’ve lost track of how much of our resources we’ve sent to South Reach, alone.”

“Have things improved there, at least?”

“From what I’ve heard, they have been able to rebuild structures, but the land is still mostly infertile where it once thrived. Lothering in particular may still be unfit for harvest next autumn, and Bryland has all but given up hope for Ostagar.” He sighed and glanced up at her. “There isn’t much to be done for it. The land is blighted beyond recognition, and even the Tower of Ishal is now in ruins.”

Arais knew all too well the damage done to Ostagar. She closed her eyes at the memory of finding Cailan’s desecrated corpse as it tried to push its way forward, forcing it back. Teagan’s nephew or no, she had not even told Anora of how she had found the king’s body. There had been a silent agreement between her and those she traveled with that they would keep what happened to Cailan to themselves, and it was something she preferred to not think on overmuch.

“Maybe it’s best left as a memorial to those lost during the Blight,” Arais suggested, her hand tight around his. “So many found their final rest in the ruins . . . disturbing them may only weaken the Veil and allow demons through.”

“You would know better than any of us what awaits us there.” He watched her for a moment, silent, before he heaved a dejected sigh. “I suppose there’s nothing to be done for it. I will speak with Bryland of your idea; I’m certain Anora will be open to it, as well.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips across hers, lingering for only a moment. “Would you like me to assist you?”

It took her a moment to realize to what he was referring, and she shook her head. “I should be fine.” She touched a finger to his cheek, brows knit together as she searched his eyes. “Will you be all right?”

“Of course, my love. Ferelden has come a long way in its recovery, it is just easy to forget as much when we are so close to the worst of the damage.” He stood and helped her to her feet, and Arais let out a breathless giggle when he pulled her flush against him. “Regardless, it is impossible to be unwell when I have you at my side.”

Her cheeks burned as she smiled, and she melted into the warmth of his embrace.

* * *

The water had long grown tepid as Arais continued to lay back, unwilling to leave the bath. The ache in her head had finally passed, and she worried if she moved, she would usher it back with renewed vigor. Still, it would do her no good to be shivering in the bathtub, and she cast an unenthusiastic glance at the towel on the chair beside the tub.

There was a quiet knock at the door. “Arais?” Teagan called, his voice muffled.

“Come in.” She pushed herself up to sit, arms wrapped around her knees to ward off the chill as Teagan slipped into the washroom. “I would have thought you would be busy with those requisitions until dinner, at least,” she pondered, head tilted to the side. “Is everything all right?”

“I believe so, yes,” he said. At her quirked eyebrow, he revealed a sealed envelope and held it out to her. “This was mixed in with the requisitions; it’s addressed from Kirkwall.”

The air went solid as her heart ceased its rhythm in her chest.

She silently reached for the towel, drying unsteady hands before she took the letter from him. Odd that the handwriting looked foreign to her, even as she recognized the jagged script Zevran preferred. It took more time than it should have to break the seal and unfold the parchment, and more still for her to calm her nerves long enough to focus on the words before her.

_A,_

_I found him. He is not entirely well, but he is safe; my contact here will ensure he stays that way._

_There is one more place I must go before I return to you. There is much we need to discuss, but I would prefer we do so in person. I hope you understand._

_Z_

The words began to quiver, and she realized she was still shaking, perhaps harder now. She passed the letter to Teagan, afraid she might lose her grip and drop it in the water. Maker, but she was cold. While Teagan read the brief message, she submerged her hands beneath the surface, channeling her energy into her palms as she swirled the water around her. Slowly, the temperature rose, until it was comfortably warm.

And yet she shivered, still.

“Alistair truly is safe, then,” Teagan breathed, the relief radiating from him palpable. When she said nothing, she could feel his gaze fall upon her. “Arais, what’s the matter?”

“I’m . . . not sure,” she said, her eyes fixed on the glassy surface of the water. “I wish I knew what Zevran meant by ‘not entirely well’.” She sighed, running a damp hand over her hair. “I can’t imagine it being anything serious, if Alistair is safe. I wonder why Zevran felt the need to be so . . . cryptic.”

“I’m certain Zevran’s reasons are sound; he wouldn’t keep anything from you, otherwise.” He folded the letter and placed it on the chair beside her towel. “Where do you think he went after Kirkwall?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” she said, glancing up at him. “Antiva, maybe, though it would be dangerous. I’m sure the Crows are far from through with him.” She lifted her shoulders in an agitated shrug. “I have to believe he wouldn’t put himself in needless danger.”

“No doubt you’re right.” His hand came to rest upon her shoulder, his fingers kneading gently. “In any case, he will return soon. He knows how important this is to you.”

“I know.” She reached up to brush her fingers across the back of his hand, and it was then she noticed just how wrinkled the tips had become. “Maker, how long have I been in here?”

He chuckled. “Just over half an hour, I believe.”

“Has it really been that long?” She grimaced. “No wonder the water was so cold.”

“Was?” He stared at her for a moment, head angled to the side, before it dawned on him. “Ah, you can heat water with your magic?”

“Mm. Here,” she said, taking his hand and lower it to just glance the surface of the water. She dipped her hand beneath his, the heat surrounding it and bubbling to the surface. She watched Teagan’s face as the water warmed his hand, and he seemed almost mesmerized.

“All we ever learned of magic was its practical uses,” he said. “The little things you can do with it never cease to amaze me.”

“I mostly used it this way during the Blight.” She reached over to the chair and took the towel, handing it to him. “We were discouraged from frivolous use in the Circle. That isn’t to say a mage has never done it, but I wasn’t one of them; there was always a risk of punishment if the templars found out.”

She drew her hand through the water, the warmth spreading with each stroke. As the water grew hotter, so too did the aroma of the oils Valena had added to it, lavender and lemon rising to meet her. She closed her eyes as she inhaled, and she longed to relax back into the water’s warm embrace.

“I take it you aren’t ready to get out quite yet?” Teagan asked.

“No, but I probably should.” She looked up at him with a sheepish smile. “Help me up?”

He stood and held his hand out, pulling her to her feet and wrapping the towel around her shoulders. His hands lingered there for a moment, sliding down her arms and up again. Her cheeks flushed, not entirely from the steam rising from the water, and the warmth remained long after he dropped his hands to his side.

He cleared his throat, stepping back to allow her room to step from the tub. “Are you feeling better?”

“Much,” she said, adjusting the towel to wrap around her chest. She caught a glimpse of folded parchment underneath the chair, and bent to pick it up. She stared at Zevran’s letter, her heartbeat quickening at what it implied as she stood. “Were you able to look over any requisitions before you found this?”

“A few, yes, but the letter felt more important.” He reached out to slip the letter from her grasp, tucking it into his pocket.

She stared at the spot where it had disappeared, her mind a whirlwind of trepidation. If only Zevran had given her an idea of when he would return, she might be able to settle her nerves. As it was, she could only hope he hadn’t strayed too far from Kirkwall, and she would see him safely back in Redcliffe soon.

Teagan tucked a finger beneath her chin and gently urged her to look at him. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

“I’ll be better when I know Zevran is safe,” she admitted, pursing her lips. “I should have anticipated the anxiety that would come with befriending an assassin, and yet here I am.”

Teagan chuckled, brushing away a lock of hair which had clung to her cheek. “You do attract an odd sort.” He cupped her cheeks in his hands. “I am worried as well, but I’m certain he will return to us in one piece.” He leaned in, his lips whispering across hers before he stepped back. “I should return to Irina, for now.”

“I’ll join you in the study once I’ve dressed,” she said, and watched as he made to leave. Just as he had pulled the door open, a thought occurred to her. “Teagan?”

He turned to her, brow raised. “Yes, my love?”

“What do you think I should do? About Alistair, I mean,” she clarified, biting the inside of her lip. “If he’s not well, he will need help.”

His face fell, and he closed the door, his eyes fixed on hers. “Zevran did say he has someone watching Alistair.”

“Yes, but . . .” she began, but paused, unsure how to continue. She cast her eyes down at the ground. “I don’t know. I suppose I still feel responsible.”

“Arais.” His voice was firm, and when she looked up, his gaze heavy as it settled on her. “Whatever may be happening with Alistair, it was his decision. You did what was best for Ferelden, and how Alistair is responded is not a reflection of you.”

Her chest tightened, and she could feel the beginnings of tears burning her eyes. “I could have found him sooner. I _should_ have found him sooner.”

“You couldn’t have known where he was or where he would end up,” he said, stepping closer. “If the Blight hadn’t been dealt with, you wouldn’t have had the opportunity to even look.” He took her by the shoulders, his grip gentle but steady. “He is alive, Arais, and that is the best we could have hoped for, given the circumstances. We will decide how to help him when we know more of his condition.”

“We?”

“Yes, we.” Teagan pursed his lips together. “I knew Alistair when he was a child. While Eamon may no longer be doing his part to keep his promise to Maric, Alistair deserves someone who will.”

Her brows knit together, confused. “What promise?”

“Eamon swore he would keep Alistair safe when Maric brought him to Redcliffe. He failed Alistair in that - I think more than I even know - but I want to make it right.” He slid his hands down to take hers, folding them together in front of him. “When the time comes, I will help you. Whatever you decide to do.” He brushed his lips across her knuckles before he released her hands. “I will see you in the study shortly.”

She watched him leave with a heavy heart, surprised it had never occurred to her how deeply Alistair’s exile had affected him. She knew he was concerned, of course, but he never spoke of Alistair as a child. It even appeared he didn’t know the full extent of Alistair’s childhood with Eamon; she couldn’t imagine it sitting well with Teagan if he knew Alistair was left to sleep with the dogs most nights.

She wished _she_ didn’t know. That, among so many other things, made it difficult to feign civility with Eamon as it was. To now know he had sworn to keep Alistair safe - that Maric’s decision to entrust his son’s life with his brother-in-law was rooted in an expectation of love and compassion - only served to anger her further.

Thinking of this reminded her of what she had witnessed herself in the past two years. It had become a regular occurrence to find Connor more despondent when she and Teagan visited. At first, Eamon would see his son as often as the restrictions allowed, but in recent months, it was a wonder if he bothered to show at all.

When he did visit, much of the conversation was spent steering the conversation away from Isolde. Eamon no doubt resented her for leaving, but to discuss it openly at all with his son? Connor could make neither heads nor tails of his father’s motivations, because what son could possibly understand why his father spoke so ill of his mother? His beginning at Kinloch Hold had been difficult enough, unable to hide his circumstances as he had been; for Eamon to add insult to injury by putting the failure of his marriage on display for his son to see was reprehensible.

A dull ache began to creep its way up her neck, and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply to divest herself of the outrage threatening to overwhelm her. She had only just begun to feel well again; it was hardly worth it to make herself sick again over this.

Even if it was yet another child being neglected by a man who had proven he cared only for himself.

She pulled her dressing gown from a hook by the tub, hanging the damp towel in its place; she had spent so much time lost in her thoughts, there was no need to further dry herself. When she opened the door, a cool burst of air wafted in through the opening, sending goose pimples prickling along her bare skin. She rubbed her arms over the thin satin sleeves to fight back the chill as she approached the wardrobe.

She dressed quickly, opting for a gown of thickly woven, mint green cotton. She smoothed the fabric of the dress over her stomach as the hem of the skirt fell with a slight weight to gather at the tops of her feet. She was certainly warmer, but with the fire dwindling near to embers, the already cool bedchambers were beginning to take on a bitter chill.

She wandered to the fireplace and knelt before it, using the rod from the mantle to poke at the blanched wood stacked within. Slivers of white flaked off to reveal the unburned wood underneath, and slowly, a single flame ignited where the bark had peeled away.

Even in such close proximity to the warmth of the hearth, Arais could feel the bite in the air at her back, and she shivered. Winter was coming on fast, and she wouldn’t be surprised if they saw snow in the coming weeks. If she were being honest, it was a wonder it hadn’t yet snowed, with how cold it had gotten.

Maker, she only hoped Zevran was safe, wherever he had gone.

* * *

**_29 Firstfall, 9:32 Dragon_ **

The docks which bordered Antiva City were bustling with people in the late afternoon rush - a sea of vibrant gold and brilliant red, royal purple and vivid blue ebbing and flowing like the gentle waves beneath the merchant ships. Wisps of straw blond hair brushed across Zevran’s face as he descended the gangway, the scents of herbs and spices mingling with the salted ocean breeze.

Though the crowd was dense, Zevran slipped through it with ease, weaving around mothers struggling to rein in their children and men balancing heavy crates of wares without so much as a brush of clothing. Jaunty music rose above the cacophonous voices of the cityfolk when a tavern door swung open before him, and Zevran fell back to avoid the giggling woman who stumbled out, her hand tugging another, equally jovial woman behind her, both flushed and breathless. His lips quirked up in a soft smile as brief, clumsy kisses broke up their laughter. The atmosphere of Antiva City seemed to ooze that which the girls exuded in spades, and yet a hollow ache settled in his chest as he watched them disappear into the crowd, his heart beset by loneliness.

Pulled from his reverie when the music became a dull thrumming behind a closed door, Zevran shook his head and pushed on. He was here for a reason, and it would do him no good to dwell on something he could not immediately change.

The crowd began to thin as the streets became more cracked and worn, and the number of buildings with boarded windows matched those without. The spiced and salted air of the docks became a dank and sour odor masked feebly by the scent of the scattered geranium blooms clinging to the stone wall to which many of the buildings were affixed.

Zevran looked up to the crest of that wall as he walked, eyes narrowed against the glare of the setting sun. It wasn’t quite as tall as he remembered; it certainly didn’t loom quite so ominously as the one surrounding the Denerim alienage. Still, that familiar crackling of indignity at the mere presence of such a wall returned, a burning reminder of the added danger faced by those who were trapped on the other side.

He bypassed the wooden gate which served as the entrance to the alienage, ignoring the narrowed eyes of the guards who stood off to either side. He casually pushed aside his cloak, revealing the scabbard at his hip, a silent dare for them to approach him. Zevran smirked when they hurried to look away and offered a perfunctory nod in their direction. One of the men in particular seemed to be particularly affronted by the gesture, lips pressed into a pale line as the muscles in his jaw jumped erratically, but he made no move to leave his post.

Zevran let his cloak fall back into place as the guards fell out of sight, and it was only a moment before he stood before a familiar building, almost nondescript in how it blended into those surrounding it. Its only unique feature was a sign which hung from a beam above the door, a familiar carving of an elven silhouette holding their hands out in welcome engraved on the surface. The soft, muffled refrains of a minstrel’s lute filtered from a single open window above him, the only sound the brothel offered so early in the evening.

Inside, the heady scent of mu’assel settled over him, a sweetness to the lingering haze of smoke cast over the parlor. Memories surfaced of when he would hide beneath the tables as the brothel’s patrons shared the hookah with their chosen escorts, eavesdropping on the empty conversations they shared as the same aroma drifted low to greet him.

There were no conversations to be overheard now, however, as his gaze fell on the empty settees. There were shuffling footsteps overhead, no doubt those of the workers as they prepared for the evening’s guests, and the only presence in the parlor was a lone woman tending to the books, her dark hair piled atop her head in an elegant twist.

She looked up from her work briefly, her shoulders jerking back almost imperceptibly before a practiced smile spread across her painted lips. “What can I do for you, love?”

“I’m looking for Antonetta,” he responded, his expression impassive.

“The serving woman?” There was a brief, perplexed tilt to her brow before she recovered. “What could you possibly want her for?”

He ignored her question, crossing his arms over his chest. “Is she working this evening, or am I wasting my time?”

The smile fell from her face, and she narrowed her eyes. “She’s in the back with the other servants.”

“I would like to speak with her. It is important,” he said.

“By all means,” she said with a curt gesture towards the kitchens. “You’re wasting your time, though. She’s a stubborn one; won’t even speak to her own kind without prodding.”

“That won’t be a problem.” He left the woman frozen with a baffled expression on her face, and he could feel her gaze follow him through the door to the kitchens.

The servants were already busying themselves with their nightly chores. A rhythmic hum floated through the open windows, sheets making occasional splashes in the steaming water basins as a half dozen women ran them across the washboards. A dense humidity from the laundry permeated the air, only drying slightly as he neared the cooking fires, which burned in anticipation of meals yet to be started.

A pair of women were chatting amiably in Antivan as they prepared dinner, the younger of the two - barely twenty years old, it appeared - letting out a sharp laugh when the older woman muttered something he couldn’t quite make out. The older woman turned to her companion, her face partially obscured by thin ropes of hair pushed back only just so by a heavy cotton band. Still, the wry smirk she wore was unmistakable, and there was an anxious sort of hesitation to his gait as he approached. He cleared his throat - a low, cautious sound - as he touched a gentle hand to her elbow.

“Nettie?”

She hardly reacted but for the slow turn of her torso to face him, her eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a cautious line. When her gaze fell fully upon him, however, she breathed, “ _Creators_ ,” and turned fully to lean against the counter, an almost relieved sigh escaping through her now parted lips. She stepped forward, touching a finger to the curved tattoos on his cheek, so similar to those on hers.

“ _Zevran, my child,”_ Antonetta began, the Antivan almost lyrical from her lips, “ _is it truly you_?”

“ _The one and only_ ,” he joked, though his smile was subdued. “ _It is good to see you again, Nettie. I missed you terribly._ ”

“ _And I, you. I was half convinced I would never see you again, it has been so long._ ” A tear glimmered like a crystal against her dark cheek before she wiped it away. “ _Why are you here?_ ”

He shook his head. “ _I would rather not discuss it here. When will you be free to return home?_ ”

She turned to the young woman beside her, who was still busy cutting up meat and tossing the chunks into a large cooking pan. “ _Callia, I -”_

“ _Go, Antonetta._ ” Callia paused her preparations and smiled. “ _I will tell them you’re on an errand, if they notice your absence._ ”

“ _I will return soon, I promise._ ” Antonetta turned towards the servants busy folding dry laundry. “ _Lisetta!_ ”

A young girl, younger than even Callia, looked up from the bedsheet she gripped by opposite corners. “ _Yes, ma’am?_ ”

“ _Come and assist Callia with dinner. I have business to attend to elsewhere._ ”

“ _Yes, ma’am_.” She passed the sheet into the outstretched hands of the serving girl beside her and crossed to the washbasin to cleanse her hands before taking her post beside Callia.

Antonetta watched her for a brief moment, her gaze focused on the knife as Lisetta peeled and sliced the carrots she had abandoned moments earlier. With a satisfied nod, she gestured for Zevran to follow her through the exit which led to the alienage, pulling her cloak from a hook by the door as she crossed the threshold.

He fell into step beside her on the dusty street, the fading rays of golden light reflecting off the dirt yet to settle from the travels of those going about their daily lives. It only took moments for his dark leather boots to be covered in a fine layer of it, hardly longer than it had for the same to happen in Lowtown’s alienage. A gentle breeze whirled the dust around them in a cloud, and he covered his mouth to avoid inhaling the grit stinging his cheek.

They turned a corner into a modest open space, the thriving vhenadahl looming tall at the center. It was the most alive he had ever seen one, far more so than it had been when he was a child. The branches formed a thick canopy of viridian spotted with vibrant gold flowers not unlike roses, casting nearly the entire area in shadow. The trunk - which could easily obscure both Zevran and Antonetta twice over with its girth - had changed, as well, engraved with images he recognized from the Dalish camp they had encountered during the Blight.

“ _Did Dimitrio carve these?_ ” he asked, tracing a finger along the curve of a deer’s back.

“ _With the help of our hahren, yes._ ” She smiled a little, a glimmer of pride in her dark eyes. “ _A tribute to the gods we had all but forgotten._ ”

He tilted his head, surprised, and let his hand fall back to his side. “ _They no longer treat Dimitrio as an outsider?_ ”

“ _Far from it. Some would still rather live as we did before, but those who are open have been happy to learn what he can teach us about the Dalish. We’ve found common ground with our neighbors, and Dimitrio has been happier for it._ ”

Zevran looked back to the carvings on the tree as his heart sank. “ _That is good to hear._ ”

“ _Is it?_ ” she asked, and he could feel her narrowed eyes fall on him. “ _You don’t seem truly relieved._ ”

“ _Of course I’m relieved, it is only . . ._ ” he trailed off, uncertain if here was the best place to tell her.

She placed a gentle hand on his forearm. “ _What is it, pajarito?”_

“ _It is_ _a long story,_ ” he said, meeting her concerned eyes while trying to mask the guilt gnawing at his gut. “ _One I would rather tell all of you together. Will Dimitrio and Pietro be at home now?_ ”

“ _Yes, I suspect they are in the middle of supper.” Her lips twisted into a small frown, and her hand tightened on his arm. “Something is wrong, isn’t it?_ ”

“ _The answer to that is far more complicated than a yes or a no, but . . ._ ” He looked down at her hand on his arm, and covered it with his own. When he again met her eyes, he could only manage a half smile before he spoke. “ _I found Vitalia._ ”

At first, she almost didn’t seem to register what he said, brows knit together above worried eyes. As she stared at him, however, concern shifted to naked bewilderment as tears began to cut harsh lines in the dust that covered her dark skin. Her hand had a vice grip on his arm, just hard enough that it was beginning to ache.

“ _How?_ ” she asked, so quietly the single word was almost lost in the whisper of the leaves as a breeze brushed past.

“ _I promise, I will tell you everything, but not here. It isn’t safe._ ” She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head. “ _Things are different than they were when we last saw one another._ ” He loosened her hold on him and gently cupped her hands within his. “ _Trust me, mamita. Please._ ”

Antonetta stared at him; her eyes burned with the torment of a mother long separated from her child, and his lungs seized with every breath he couldn’t use to ease her suffering. After an achingly long silence, she nodded her head. “ _All right. Let us return to the house, then._ ”

She turned and walked past the vhenadahl, shoulders tensed and steps quick. As he hurried to fall into step with her, his hand brushed against an unlit candle and knocked it from its altar. By the time he had placed it back on its tray, he was only able to catch a glimpse of her cloak billowing behind her as she disappeared down a side street.

The potent smell of rosemary and oregano settled around him when at last he caught up to her. She stood in front of a small hovel waiting for him, the glow of firelight from the torches illuminating the lacquered beads sewn into her hair wrap. Without a word, she opened the door, stepping aside to allow him entry. The foyer was small, almost claustrophobic with the two of them standing within together, the feeling made only worse by anxiety already tightening his chest.

Snippets of a conversation between two men drifted in from the next room, their voices mingling with the scrape of cutlery against clay plates. Their voices cut off abruptly when Antonetta entered the room, and when Zevran followed behind her, he witnessed their expressions shift from the wrinkled brow of mild surprise to the wide eyes of profound confusion.

“ _Zevran?_ ” Pietro said, his gaze steady on Zevran as he stood, approaching him cautiously. He almost seemed to believe if he looked away, Zevran might disappear. “ _Is it really you?_ ” As the boy stopped in front of him, it became apparent just how much taller he had gotten - nearly as tall as Zevran himself, in fact.

He was surprised when - after Pietro briefly reached out to touch him on the shoulder - he was enveloped in a tight hug. Zevran hesitated only briefly before returning the gesture, rubbing slow circles on Pietro’s back as his shoulders began to shake.

“ _It has been a long time since we last saw you, da’len._ ” Zevran looked to Dimitrio, who nodded to Zevran from where he stood by the small, weathered dining table. “ _Too long.”_

Pietro stepped back, wiping the back of his hand across his cheeks. “ _We weren’t sure you would ever come back._ ”

Zevran made to reply, but was cut off by Antonetta’s hand on his shoulder. “ _He has news,_ ” she said, her voice quiet as she took a seat beside her husband. “ _About Vitalia_.”

He could feel the atmosphere shift in that moment, quiet falling over them like a heavy wool blanket, the air thick and suffocating.

Dimitrio was the first to break the silence. “ _Where?_ ”

“ _Ferelden. She is an apprentice at their Circle._ ”

“ _Is?_ ” Pietro all but whispered, falling heavily back into his chair. “ _She’s still alive?_ ”

Zevran nodded. “ _And safe._ ”

“ _Ferelden is so far,_ ” Dimitrio said. “ _How did you find her?_ ”

“ _Oddly enough, we attended the same wedding. The arl of Redcliffe was married just a few months ago, and she accompanied his nephew._ ”

Antonetta raised a brow. “ _I assume the long story you mentioned would explain how you earned an invitation to a nobleman’s wedding?_ ”

“ _I acquired a high profile mark during the Blight; the only two surviving Wardens in Ferelden. I failed, and my own life was spared under the condition I aide them. I might have found Vitalia sooner, had I not been sent so late into their quest. One of the Wardens was recruited from Kinloch Hold, herself, and had returned when there were rumors blood mages had wrested the tower from the templars’ control.”_

“ _Blood mages?_ ” Dimitrio’s hand came up to cover his face. “ _Creators, Vitalia must have been in agony; she has always been sensitive to dark magic._ ”

“ _She was well when I spoke with her, and as lively as she has always been._ ” He offered a small smile. “ _But as it is, had the Warden Arais not spared me, I would never have had that chance. We grew close during the Blight, and she saved my life more than once. It was actually she who was marrying Arl Teagan._ ”

“ _But why did you insist we speak of this in private?_ ” Antonetta asked as she leaned her elbows on the dining table. “ _It hardly seems to be information one would need to keep quiet.”_

“ _Well, having failed to eliminate my mark, and in turn failing to return to the Crows to face punishment, I have as good as defected. The Crows are not known for letting those who wish to leave go without consequence, especially when I am no better than a traitor in their eyes._ ”

His lips pressed into a grim line, and he settled into a chair beside Pietro. “ _They will do all they can to make me suffer for refusing to return when they gave me the chance, and with Crow blood on my hands . . ._ ” He sighed heavily, rubbing his hands across his face. “ _I expect them to target those for whom I care most before they come for me, and that includes all of you. Vitalia is safe in the Circle; there is no doubt in my mind her whereabouts are unknown to them._ _I want to keep it that way as long as possible._ ”

“ _I see,_ ” Antonetta said, her voice even despite the glimmer of fear in her eyes.

 _“And what of us?_ ” Dimitrio asked as he reached out a hand for his wife’s. “ _I assume no harm has come to us yet for a reason._ ”

“ _The guild learned of my connection to your family not long after I was last here. Any weakness is exploited without prejudice, and if they believed I was still . . . attached, they may have harmed any one of you even before I went to Ferelden.”_ He cast his eyes down to his lap. “ _I distanced myself from this place, and devoted myself to them in ways I am not proud of to prove my loyalty._

“ _Still, I am not entirely sure that will make a difference now, which is part of why I came. To warn you, I suppose, and offer my help, if you want it._ ” He leaned forward, folding his hands in front of him on the table. “ _The Crows know you are here, and if they believe they can use you, they will. I admit I wasn’t sure what I would do when I first set my mind on coming here, but I have an option, now.”_

“ _What is it?”_ Pietro asked, his shoulders tense.

“ _I met a woman in Kirkwall, one who has connections she uses to protect mage friends of hers from the templars. One is actually like you, Dimitrio, from what I understand; a former Dalish First who left her clan to live in the Lowtown alienage._ ”

He glanced off to the side, unsure how to continue. He would be asking them to leave everything they had ever known, and it was his fault it was even something they needed to worry about.

“ _Gwyneth told me she and her friends can help you. I know asking you to leave your home seems extreme, but my only connection to Kirkwall is entirely separate from the Crows. They would not easily find you there._ ” He glanced between them, his chest tight. “ _I’m sorry._ ”

There was another, brief silence before Dimitrio spoke. “ _You seem to believe this is your fault somehow, da’len._ ” Zevran tilted his head to the side, and Dimitrio lifted his hand in a dismissive gesture. “ _You did not choose the life you lead, you merely adapted to it._ ”

“ _We know you would not have put us in needless danger; unlike the Crows, you are not heartless._ ” Antonetta reached across the table with her free hand to hold his. “ _We love you, pajarito. If you would feel more at ease with us in Kirkwall, we will go._ ”

“ _Yeah, of course,_ ” Pietro said, nudging Zevran with his elbow. “ _I am sure Mama will be happy to leave, especially._ ”

“ _She never has been one to stay within the alienage’s walls,_ ” Dimitrio said, the levity in his tone jarring to Zevran, with how tense the atmosphere had become.

Antonetta narrowed her eyes at her husband. “ _You tease, but we would not have met, otherwise._ ”

“ _I am well aware, vhenan._ ” Dimitrio smirked, his thumb brushing along her palm. “ _I will forever be grateful for your wanderlust, make no mistake._ ”

“ _What about Vitalia?_ ” Pietro asked after a moment, drawing Zevran’s attention away from the couple.

“ _As I said, she is safe in Kinloch Hold. It is under constant guard, and the templars are far more cautious since the coup._ ”

“ _No, I mean . . . will we be able to see her?_ ”

“ _Oh_ .” Zevran was quiet for a moment. “ _I am not certain. Arais once explained mages are only allowed to travel once they are Harrowed. The families of those at Kinloch Hold were recently given the opportunity to visit, but -_ ”

“ _\- it would not be safe for me to go,_ ” Dimitrio finished. “ _Avoiding the templars in their domain would be another thing entirely from what I’ve done the past twenty years._ ”

Antonetta squeezed her husband’s hand, watching him with a frown twisting her lips. She looked to Zevran. “ _Your Warden friend . . . is there anything she might be able to do?_ ”

“ _If there is a person in Thedas more capable of making it happen, I have not met them._ ” A wistful smile settled on Zevran’s face for a moment before he could stop himself. He looked away from Antonetta’s now scrutinizing eyes and nodded his head. “ _I will speak with her when I return to Ferelden; I am certain we can figure something out._ ”

“ _I know nothing of this woman,_ ” Dimitrio started, and Zevran was grateful to have an excuse to look anywhere but at Antonetta, “ _but I do know you, da’len. I trust you will find a way for us to see Vitalia again._ ”

“ _Of course_ , _papa, and I have no doubt Arais will do whatever it is in her power to do to help, as will her husband. Though I believe the influence lays comfortably in Arais’ lap; there are very few in Ferelden who won’t admit they owe their lives to her._ ”

“ _She is responsible for saving more than those who live in Ferelden, so it is hardly surprising_ ,” Antonetta said.

Dimitrio nodded. “ _Her husband must be an equally remarkable person to have earned her notice during such a tumultuous time._ ”

“ _Indeed, he is, though I suspect their meeting was inevitable._ ”

“ _How so?_ ” Pietro asked, turning to face Zevran more fully in his seat. There was an excited glimmer in his dark eyes, the very same which had always begged for a story when Pietro was a small child.

“ _Many things, truth be told,”_ Zevran began, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips, _“not the least of which was a shared connection with the other Warden she traveled with, Alistair. Teagan’s brother raised Alistair for a time; a favor for the late King Maric, I’ve been told._ ”

Pietro raised a brow. “ _Why would the king ask for such a thing?_ ”

“ _Alistair was Maric’s bastard. No doubt he wished for him to be kept safe, even if Alistair was to remain hidden from the people of Ferelden.”_

“ _How did you come to learn of his parentage, then?_ ” Dimitrio asked.

“ _It would have been rather difficult to not learn about it, at some point._ ” Zevran leaned back in his chair and offered a half hearted smirk. _“It was a significant conflict during the Blight. Arl Eamon believed Alistair to be the rightful heir to the throne after King Cailan was killed, and attempted to dethrone Queen Anora._ ”

“ _From what you’ve told us, he was unsuccessful,_ ” Antonetta said, her tone flat.

Zevran simply shrugged. “ _Had it ever been up to Eamon, he might have had his way, but the Landsmeet left the choice to Arais. Maker only knows why, as the Wardens are supposed to remain far removed from politics of that sort, but there you have it._ ”

“ _And Teagan . . . he didn’t agree with his brother on this?_ ” Pietro asked.

“ _Perhaps he did at first, but he certainly did not share his brother’s anger with Arais when she allowed Anora to retain the throne._ ” Zevran pursed his lips and fought against clenching his hands into fists. He took a deep, quiet breath before he continued. “ _Eamon owes quite a lot to Arais, but it seems only Teagan was willing to acknowledge as much._ ”

Pietro rested an elbow on the table and cupped his jaw on his hand. “ _What did Arais do?_ ”

“ _I mentioned Vitalia attended their wedding with Teagan’s nephew, yes? They are friends, and seem to be very close. She mentioned being one of only two apprentices willing to befriend him so soon after his arrival._ ”

“ _Why is that?_ ” Dimitrio asked, seeming equally as invested as his son.

“ _He was possessed not long before he was brought to Kinloch Hold,_ ” Zevran said. “ _When Arais went to Redcliffe, it was to find Arl Eamon. What she found was a village near ruin at the hands of the demon possessing Connor, and their arl near death. Poisoned by an apostate hired to tutor his son, no less._

 _“I . . . encountered Arais on her way to Kinloch Hold to meet with the First Enchanter. He and the senior enchanters who remained accompanied us across Lake Calenhad. I wasn’t privy to what happened at the time, but I learned later she entered the Fade to confront the demon herself._ ”

Pietro’s mouth fell open, astonished. “ _How?_ ”

Zevran shrugged, surprised he had never thought to ask her as much, himself.

“ _It is a powerful spell; one which requires a great deal of lyrium,_ ” Dimitrio said, and Zevran looked to him, brow raised. Dimitrio smiled. “ _I learned many things from the Keeper before I left my clan, da’len. I was their First, remember?_ ” He folded his hands upon the table. “ _Arais put herself in a great deal of danger to rescue that child. That his father is so hostile to her is surprising._ ”

“ _More so since she saved his life, as well._ ” Zevran paused, crossing his arms over his chest with an irritated sigh. “ _We hiked the Frostbacks in the height of a Fereldan winter chasing a myth and the only warmth I remember feeling was from the flames of the high dragon guarding the temple._ ”

“ _A high dragon?_ ” Pietro’s eyes lit up. “ _You fought a dragon?_ ”

“ _Yes,_ ” Zevran said, his smile returning, “ _though not very well, I’m afraid. Were it not for the Qunari companion we had with us, we might not have come out as intact as we did._ ”

“ _What could you possibly have been looking for in a temple guarded by a high dragon?_ ” Antonetta asked with a flicker of something not unlike envy in her eyes.

“ _The ashes of Andraste,_ ” he replied. “ _The legend was they could cure those who consume them of any ailment - a legend Eamon was lucky not only turned out to be true, but which included poisoning._ ” Zevran’s eyes lifted to the ceiling with an exasperated sigh. “ _Were it not for Arais, Eamon would have died alongside his only child, but it seems to be in his nature to disregard those who do not act in his best interest, including his own brother._ ”

“ _You mentioned Teagan is now the arl; what happened to Eamon?_ ” Pietro asked.

“ _The official story was that a decline in his health forced him to step down, but those closely involved know better,_ ” he said, taking a moment to think. “ _Lady Isolde - his wife - had not told him of their son’s magic. The tutor who poisoned Eamon was brought to the castle by Isolde without his knowledge._ ”

“ _So I take it he blamed her for what became of their family?_ ” Antonetta snorted at Zevran’s affirmative nod; there was a note of hostility in her voice when she again spoke. “ _She did what she thought best for her child; she was not the one who hired the apostate to poison her husband._ ”

“ _Indeed she was not; that was Teyrn Loghain._ ” Zevran sighed. “ _Eamon was terrible to her after, and did little to hide it. His reputation was already in ruins after the Landsmeet, and there would be no recovering it when she chose to leave him. He did not even have the support of his more popular brother, seeing as Teagan chose to aide Isolde through the separation._ ”

Pietro tilted his head to the side. “ _Was this Arais’ influence, as well?_ ”

“ _In all honesty, I do not think so,_ ” Zevran replied. “ _I spent quite a bit of time with him after the archdemon was slain. Arais was severely injured, and he was at her side nearly as often as I was while she recovered._ ” He fell silent for a moment, the memory of their shared anguish settling heavily in his gut. “ _Teagan is a kind, compassionate man; he had taken it upon himself to defend Redcliffe Village when Eamon was poisoned. Arais mentioned he even put himself in harm’s way when Isolde sought him out after one of the attacks on the village._ ”

A tightness coiled itself around his heart, holding it firm and making it difficult to speak. “ _It is remarkable how different Teagan is from his brother._ ”

“ _Truly_ ,” Dimitrio said, a thoughtful smile on his lips. A long silence fell over them before he spoke again. “ _To have met Arais seems to have done you a world of good, da’len._ ”

“ _It has._ ” Zevran’s eyes fell to his lap, a regretful frown taut on his lips. “ _More than I believe she even knows._ ”

He could feel the weight of Antonetta’s gaze upon him, and when he hesitantly met her eyes, the knowing glimmer he found there did little to surprise him. She said nothing, however, offering only a small smile stained by a sad sort of understanding.

“ _When should we prepare to leave Antiva?_ ” Dimitrio asked, his eyes equally knowing as his wife’s. “ _I assume it won’t be long before the Crows become a very real threat?_ ”

“ _That is a fair assumption_ ,” Zevran replied, grateful for the turn of conversation. “ _Would the end of the week be too soon?_ ”

“ _Not at all,_ ” Antonetta said. “ _Callia is more than capable of taking my place in the brothel. I only wish for time to say goodbye; those girls are like family, and it won’t be easy to leave them._ ”

Dimitrio gripped her hand in his. “ _They will understand, vhenan._ ”

“ _I promise, you will be able to return, someday, if you wish it,_ ” Zevran said, his voice sharp, heated. “ _I will not allow the Crows to remain a danger, even if it means destroying them myself._ ”

“ _I would ask you not to be foolhardy, but I suspect it would fall on deaf ears._ ” Antonetta stood and rounded the table to stand beside him. “ _I know you, pajarito, and you mean a lot to a great many people, now, it seems._ ” She touched the tips of her fingers to his cheek, tracing her thumb along his tattoo. “ _I only ask you keep yourself safe, above all else._ ”

He nodded, reveling in the warmth of her dark eyes as she held his own. “ _Of course, mamita._ _I will._ ”

  


**Author's Note:**

> The wedding ceremony was originally written by HereBeDragons, and was borrowed with her permission. Shout out to jarebear20 and Merlinda_Dragon for helping me edit this monster.


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